Bleed Black
by Gaia-VoidMother
Summary: Spike has a Really Good Day. This isn't a very happy fic to begin with, nor is there much fluff. There are some dark times coming. You've been warned. It's eventually gonna be Spuffy. Story starts somewhere between School Hard & Angelus getting his happy on. Dru's still sick, Spike never got crippled. Joyce has known about Buffy's Calling since the attempt to resurrect the Master.
1. Ch1: Only Death Is Certain

He loved the sound of her heart beating. Every time he took a long pull, the rhythm stuttered, before recovering for a few beats as he swallowed down the heady cocktail of slayer blood and fear. Unlife was fuckin' NEAT. So there he was, The Big Bad, bein'... well. Big and Bad. Third notch an' all. Dru was gonna cream her loony panties when he told her the good news. Which sounded right brilliant for dessert, now that he thought of it.

 _-Flicker. FLASH-_

A sword fight. A stone statue. A diminutive blonde girl, hardly more than a child, leaps and whirls around a hulking dark-haired figure. Her eyes are focussed, watching for an opening, _any_ opening, yet deep within them lies a rending pain. The man * _that's not a man, that's the soddin' Great Poofter Himself!_ * laughs viciously, taunting the girl * _Don't look so soul-havin' now, do ya Peaches? And how'd you shed that soulful stick up your arse?_ * as he kicks her away from her sword. She slumps against the wall, defeat in every line. He raises his own blade above his head, and brings it down with a roar of triumph. - _FLASH-_ The dark-haired vampire stands trustingly, eyes closed as the Slayer tearfully transfixes him with her blade. He cries out in pained betrayal as his body is sucked into a vortex that is seemingly anchored in the mouth of the stone statue * _An' why the FUCK would Foreheadus Maximus just fucking STAND there for his send-off? What'd I miss? What the buggering fuck is this anyway? And what is that delectable SMELL?_ *

Spike lifted his head from her throat, lips stained crimson, teeth rimed in red. The blond from his vision is sprawled beneath him, eyes glazed in pain and exhaustion. He took a few deep breaths, trying to pinpoint the distracting smell that wound beneath the coppery scent of blood and power that was unique to a Slayer. He smirked nastily when he realised just what it was. * _Bint's bloody turned on. I don't believe it. Knew she liked the dust-up, din't think she'd enjoy the after-party. I'n't this somethin' for the Wanker Diaries..._ * He looked down at his Third Notch. She'd given him quite a fight, they'd near enough demolished the warehouse she'd tracked him to tonight and he'd led her on a merry chase through half the cemeteries of Sunnyhell beforehand.

There was a fizzing sensation in his veins, and a faint roaring in his skull. Slayer blood was such a damned rush! And this one was so different to that Chinese girl he'd had all those years ago. She had tasted of spice and resignation. She'd been happy to go, at the last. But this one, by God she was magnificent! Tasted like warm sunshine, hope and fear and fire, underscored by untried passion and regret and that sweet musky arousal adding piquancy to the whole sodding bouquet. Damned if he didn't sound like a right tosser, that bloody poncy little shite William popping up with his poetic nancy-boy poetry. He had to admit though, this was quite possibly the best taste he'd ever had in his mouth. This Slayer wasn't ready to die yet and it showed. The adrenaline still lacing her blood was like that time he'd taken an amphetamine junkie. It raced through his skull and straight to his cock. He could drive sodding nails with this erection. Could run for fucking DAYS. He wanted to throw his head back and howl his triumph to the moon, rub it in the great Poofter's face because of course HIS scent had been all over this girl when she'd started chasing him tonight. He'd watched in disgusted disbelief as the Wanker Himself had mooned over the chit every chance he got, traipsing after her and lurking under her window in a hilarious shadow of his former un-souled self, only without the sinister taunting and dead puppies.

It appeared she was equally infatuated with He of the Forehead, encouraging him with her come-hither eyes and unschooled posturing. The attempts to appear mature and sophisticated undermined by the awkward glances she threw him from under her lashes, gauging his reactions like the little girl she ultimately was. Give her a few years, and a few lovers (though not the sodding Bogtrotter, he was a useless lump unless you went in for torture) and she might have had the confidence to pull her act off. She had a body that'd tempt a saint, just enough curves and just enough flesh to grow into a sultry little sex-kitten. Pity she'd never get the chance.

Snapping out of his reverie, Spike bent down to her throat, sliding his fangs right back into the sluggishly bleeding artery he'd previously tapped. His swallows were slow and luxurious now, his throat working as he sipped at her life rather than gulping it. This he swore, he'd have the patience to savour. It was completely worth forgoing the instant gratification of draining the chit like a pulped orange.

 _-Flicker-FLASH-_

A slightly older version of the slayer beneath his fangs leapt into action against a group of blue hag-demons, taking and dealing hits in a whirling dance of destruction. * _huh, wonder what the Bitches of Jhe are doin' in sodding Sunnyhell? Fuck she looks good, where'd she learn to do THAT? And what the fuck is goin' on dammit?! 'm not Dru, why'm I getting the visions? S'not like that Woodstock hippy, slayer was dead sober when we were throwin' down*_

He frowned into her neck as he continued the slow drain, unwilling to stop the effervescent liquid from sparkling on his palate while he pondered the odd visions. As far as he could remember this hadn't happened with the Chinese bint he'd squeezed dry. He never did sample the New York slayer, an odd sense of respect had stayed his fangs from the woman who had so nearly done for him. He turned his attention to the vital signs of the slayer beneath him, listening with pleasure to the heart, growing fainter as her blood pressure dropped lower and lower. Her breathing was growing erratic and her hands and feet were twitching, her body's unconscious attempt to distance itself from the danger it was in. He closed his eyes as he smiled around her neck. He'd probably go years and years before he met her match, and he may dust before that ever happened, she'd already surpassed the last one he'd bested. He shrugged and settled further down against her, wallowing in the sensations of her blood vitalising him, and her scent surrounding him.

 _-Flick-FLASH-_

This slayer, eyes glowing orange, speaking with a timeless echo, plunging her fist into the chest of a Frankenstein monstrosity, ripping out a glowing object as the monster's eyes dimmed and it crashed to its knees. A white-haired figure beside her, decapitating a demon with a whirl of black leather * _No SODDING WAY! What the buggering fuck is he doin' with MY coat? Won that fair an- oh. Oh no. No no nonono. Can't be. Oh God no! Why'm I HELPIN' the broad? Who wrote this fucking script?! And why'm I lookin' at her like she hung the fuckin' moon?_ * She collapses, obviously spent, and instead of going for her throat, the Spike of the vision removes his duster and tenderly covers the small figure before picking her up and carrying her out of the room, away from the corpses.

The visions flicker past faster and faster, images over what are obviously years flashing rapidly across his mind, Spike- with the Slayer, patrolling Restfield. Demon-faced and snarling, brawling in broad daylight with an upset Chosen One. Slayer, surrounded by demons, saved by Spike. Blond vampire sparring with blond Slayer, both laughing as the evenly matched pair seem to dance across the hardwood floor of a basement gym setup. Kisses in moonlight. Blood, sweat, tears, FUCKING. Ecstasy-etched faces in the throes of a grand passion. Fading. Fainter and fewer, flickering now in time with that faltering, fluttering heartbeat. As he swallowed the last mouthful, the heart and visions finally, finally halted. He felt the vitality leave her now rapidly cooling body. Her eyes, so bright and green, now clouding over with grey death, face slack and lifeless. Throat inexplicably wet with more than blood smears. His eyes burn. Drying tear tracks down her calm face. His demon, subdued in the wake of his greatest victory, quiescent in disbelief. He was crying. Silent tears dripped unnoticed to the corpse of his greatest opponent. A raw sound in his throat, half moan, half hysterical giggle.

* _Gone an' done it now haven't I? Can't be her sodding dog if she's fuckin' dead can I? Dru! Comin' home now Dru.*_ 'Done it. 've done it luv, done you proud I have, my wicked plum. Comin' to get you Princess.'


	2. Ch2: One Good Day

He'd stalked her, keeping out of range of both her slayer-enhanced senses and his grand-sires' familial ties. Watching, gauging. He'd learnt patience for this one; she'd taught him caution, wariness for the unpredictable element that was her bonds to family and friends. He had thought it would be simple, and sent a minion to test her first, that night behind the Bronze. Had been impressed with her skill and flair, the zest she still had for the kill. Unable to wait he'd come after her mere days later, in the halls of her high-school, where he'd had her on the ropes and down for the count. That should have been the end of it but he'd been blindsided literally by the protective instincts of her mother. Bloody bint took a fucking AXE to his head. She had a pair of stones, Slayer's mum did. He was almost sorry she'd be burying her baby. But for that sacred calling, the sort of dedication she'd had to her progeny should have been rewarded.

Tonight had been glorious. A true meeting of Light versus Dark. He'd met his match, the Batman to his Joker. He'd-had-her-she'd-had-him back and forth, give and take. The best sort of dance. The kind that comes once a century and leaves you feeling a euphoria that tops sex and blood and only happened when you trusted your partner to give their all, when you know only one'll walk at the end and the only way to win is to have a better day than her. It was always a woman for him, the only ones worth waltzing with. Slayers, the ultimate dance-partner, the sodding Great Challenge. Every time he'd faced one he flirted with the cliff's edge. It was like sticking a hand in sunlight, only without the immediate burn, and he'd never been sure until the last blow that he'd be the one to walk away.

Spike thought fondly of the warehouse they'd ended up in, the same one he'd made a home for him an' Dru when they'd first arrived and had to kowtow to the Annoyin' One. 'Course, once he'd dusted the pretentious little shit, the Slayer soon found it and that'd been the end of that. He'd moved his black sugarplum to another warehouse, this one even more dilapidated and tumble-down, but it was only a temporary thing, as soon as he found a cure for her wasting illness they were blowin' this popsicle stand. Too damn many demons gathered about a Hellmouth to make it comfortable as a proper hunting ground, an' his Dru din't like to put down roots, no. She was a free spirit in the truest sense of the word, drifting like spidersilk in the wind, to and bloody fro, wherever her whimsy alighted.

He lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly, as he headed back to his beloved Sire's eccentric orbit. He relived the fight in his head, going over and over his favourite parts; the half-choked huff she made when he'd winded her with a perfect boot to the solar plexus. The way her hair seemed to glow like a halo in the light of the full moon when she'd hooked a diminutive fist across his jaw, slamming him head first into a mausoleum wall. Soddin' hell he'd seen stars for a while after that, bitch could hit like a ton of bricks. The way she hunkered in, fists up and steely-eyed when he bounced on his toes during one of their brief, unspoken truces that seemed to evolve naturally from the titanic effort both put in to ending their opponent.

Even after he'd snapped her wrist, throwing her against the wrought-iron fence of a cemetery, she'd still almost done for him a few times. Spike continued on his way, his eyes half mast and flickering side to side as he reminisced. He'd loved the fact that she had never begged quarter, no matter how many times he knocked her down, even when he'd finally broken her ribs with that vicious heel kick into the iron girder in the warehouse. She just whimpered and squared up again, breathing shallowly, a battered Goddess.

The white knight in midnight was returning. Miss Edith had murmured, the pixies confirmed. The sibilant whispers questioning. Where is the White Queen? She could feel the cool fingers of darkness eclipsing the sunshine. Gold to ash. Sunshine and regret. No true night (knight?) this. Too long in the dark and what was white is stained grey.

A gaunt waif whirled through shafts of moonlight, tilting and swaying to unheard music, the flickering black-white of her pale limbs and dark garments juxtaposed. The girl-woman skipped through the shadows and cold silver that made her form appear disjointed, a floating hand, a glimpse of velvet skirt and the flag of her dark tresses. The glitter of eyes from the dark entrance snagged her stilted lone waltz, and she drifted to the centre of the room, sinking artfully to the floor in the largest ray of light. 'You been dancin' all the night again, pet?' A smoky drawl, a hitched unnecessary breath, and a flare of cherry-red in the gloom.

He stalked towards her, loose-limbed and predatory. She felt a frisson of excitement on the side facing his languid approach. Her eyes half-shut she swayed towards him, drawn in by the power, the heat within him. 'Did my bad dog eat something warm? I smell it you know.' She giggled slyly. 'Bad dog shouldn't taste sunshine, it'll burn him to ashes. Open his eyes.'

'Pet, you'll spoil my surprise. 've gotten something for you, a real treat. We'll have you back to your normal self in no time. See, I had myself a real good day. That pint-sized Slayer won't be botherin' us anymore, and we'll be out of Sunnyhell before the next sunrise.'

She moaned, hand to her temple. 'The stars. They're screaming at me! Why are they crying so loudly? Where is the White Queen? Shadows. All shadows. White to grey from black. Where is your Queen, little prince?'

*Dru's been acting right odd since we left Prague* 'My wicked Queen is right where I left her, dancin' the night to day and chasin' moonlight like one o' her pixies' He dropped a kiss to her temple and she shivered in reaction, whimpering. He looked at her, frowning a little. She was lost again, blind to the corporeal world. Her sodding Miss Edith had probably made off with her mind again, and she was too thin to wait. He vamped briefly and casually tore his wrist open, tipping it over her parted lips until she latched on and started nuzzling for more of the potent draught. He smiled as almost instantly her features started to fill out and bloom with pale health. He'd already benefitted mightily from the potency of the Slayer's gift, his face was pale and unblemished, cheekbone no longer depressed and his cracked sternum no longer sent jabs of agony through his frame. All the bruising was faded as if weeks and not hours had passed.

After a time, he regretfully detached Drusilla from his arm, stroking her hair as he licked his wound closed. Her eyes fluttered slowly, and her pupils sharpened as she came back to herself. A wicked grin flitted across her face and she licked her lips clean, before she suddenly raked him along his cheekbone like an angry cat. 'What's the bad, BAD dog done? He's eaten where he shouldn't hasn't he? Taken too much and burnt the gold to ashes. Tastes of sunshine and regrets he does, and where's his Mummy to find her dearest Daddy when he's gone and hidden the light?' Her face broke and she sobbed and wailed, leaping to her feet and fleeing across the wooden floorboards. 'Daddy is lostlostLOST! Oh what a wicked dog you are little William! Never should have brought you home! Broken home. Lost Daddy. Ashes where the light lives.'

He looked on in absolute consternation, hand slowly raised to his cheek. As her words sank in his eyes shuttered, pain driven deep and stomped into a little hole. Dru was havin' an episode. Never means the nasty things she spouts when she goes on like a sack of hammers. Fucking Angelus, couldn't have a toy without that he shattered it and ruined the joy for everyone else. Now he'll have to talk Dru down and hope she forgave him for whatever he had apparently fucked up this time. Only, she was goin' on and on about eatin' wrong, and too much and... Oh hell. What's she seen now? She's been goin on and on about this bloody White Queen and how the sunshine would help her find her Daddy, only the Poofter was in town now, and she'd even been to see him once or twice, by the smell. He tried not to begrudge her, the Sire bond could be a powerful thing, but c'mon, it was the Sodding Forehead. And what did sunlight have to do with him anyway, last he heard just havin a soul shoved up your arse didn't mean a free pass to sunlit strolls on the bloody beach.


	3. Ch3: Aftermath

'Sunshine! Wilt tha sleep, golden an' warm, til it's time to let tha' go back?'

'Back? Whu-?' * _Ok, note to self, Buffy brain and waking up are unmixy things. Need caffeine_ *

'Come now, little thing. Naught good it'll favour tha to rest overmuch. Tis time to rise and face thy music.'

* _Wait a minute, what happened last night? I was fighting... OH! That bleached 80's reject from the highschool. He sounded a bit like Giles, but WAY more with the making of the snark. What do I remember? We fought, I chased him through some cemeteries, and found him at the warehouse the Anointed one used to nest at... Didn't he bite me? He BIT me! And now there's some strange woman trying to wake me up and I know I died because he-wait, Giles said his name was William something-or-other- told me he'd kill me when we fought and if I'm dead, why do I have such a headache?*_

'Uh, where am I? Is this... Am I dead?'

A rich chuckle penetrated her skull, and her eyes fluttered open. The first thing she noticed as she cautiously sat up was a short, stout woman beside the bed. 'Dead tha art, sweetling, but tha hast work to do and things to learn even here. Tis no rest for a Champion-in-Training, and tha hast much to accomplish with little time for't.'

'Way to vague things up. Can any of the supernatural people in my life make with the sense? Or is it a PTB requirement that cryptic clues and/or weird accents are the order of the day?'

'Oh lovey, tha'd have to ask them thy own self, an' late tha art already. Now up, up my girl, we've got much to do here. Clothes in the chest there, and belike tha's ahungered. I'll lead tha off to break thy fast if tha'll only get dressed. I'll wait outside for thee.'

* * *

* _Time flies, like a pigeon. Or a hammer. Much to do with the sun sleeping. Secrets slipping, broken dolls to return. Mustn't tell, Miss Edith mustn't speak out of turn or there'll be no cake for supper. Such pretty poetry, the sunshine's return at knightfall._ * The owner of these thoughts flitted from shadow to shadow. Amber eyes glowed from beneath a prominent brow-ridge as her form passed beneath one of the vanishingly few streetlights in the district. When she arrived at her destination, Drusilla skipped around the side of the building and dashed in the side door. * _Mustn't tarry, mustn't linger. All angels and princesses burn and wither under the harsh glare of Apollo_ *

She eyed the crumpled form in the centre of a cleared space. It looked like a hurricane had gone through the lower floor, with smashed crates and the table that had graced the floor where the body was now laying in splinters. The slender vampiress minced her way through the splinters and wreckage, pulling a thick piece of yellowing parchment from her bodice. She peered at it before replacing it and kneeling beside the fallen Slayer. 'Oh Sunshine. Mercury drained and pinions crippled. How are you to fly when he has broken your body to the floor?' Drusilla looked skyward, human guise melting over her demon's face. 'Bad dogs shouldn't be shown the sparkling fireflies of might-have-been, they bite and madden them. I chose the best and bravest knight in all the land, but I birthed him wrong and now he's nearly spoiled the tea-party! You know better. You know. Time to make it right. Mummy is always cleaning up after the children.'

The mad seer lifts the body. With all the life and vibrancy stilled, the shell seems less than the sum of its parts. She steps towards the door and darts into the night.

An insistent drubbing on his door brings the Council's representative to wakefulness. Giles rises swiftly, worry on his brow as he hurries to his closet and dons a robe. His haste brings him clattering to the front door, which he wrenches open, heart in his throat. He hasn't seen his charge in over 24 hours and he hopes against hope that it's _her._ The doorway is disturbingly empty and the disappointment threatens to floor him. Head dropping to look at the floor, he recoils in horror. The daughter of his heart is laid out before his threshold like an offering, hands folded over her breast. Her skin appears waxen, Californian tan competing against bloodless pallor. Perhaps the worst thing about the scene * _she's dead. She's DEAD! It's too soon ohgodohgod_ *, is the tiny silver dagger pinning a sheet of parchment through her palms.

His hands shaking, the Watcher lifts his precious burden and carries her to the dining table before laying her out again. Gently moves her hands to her sides and removes the parchment and the dagger. His brow furrows as he attempts to decipher the foreign language. For a moment, a different man's eyes flicker to the body on the table, anger deep within the sadness. Absently polishing his spectacles, Giles moves to his bookshelves and starts rifling through the collection. Pulling a codex of ancient predictions from the stacks at his desk he flips through it until he finds what he is looking for, muttering to himself and taking notes. Sipping on a glass of scotch, his eyes spark for a moment and he wonders. There is a lot to consider, after all. He knows some of it is missing, but that's not as important as what _is_ there. For some time he's suspected that the line had passed to the new slayer, called when she had died for that minute last year. Now that it seems certain that she is retrievable, that it is _desirable_ that she should return, he isn't going to question it too closely. It appears he has some of what he needs, and if what he's read is correct then he has his own part to play. * _Saeson's mount?_ * something niggles in the back of his mind. He reaches without appearing to look at the shelf at beside the desk and retrieves another tome. He looks over it, skimming quickly before his eyes light up in a Eureka moment. * _Looks like I'm going back to Merry Old_ *

As the hours drew closer to dawn, the man looked as if he had aged a decade overnight. The level on his crystal decanter crept closer to the bottom and yet still, Giles could not conceive of a way to inform her mother. * _God, no wonder we traditionally isolate these young women._ * And it was only now, in the tiny hours of the new day, that British stoicism gave way to bitter tears in the face of a heartbreak so profound it seemed inconceivable that it could leave anything whole in its wake.

The shrill clarion of technology interrupted the Watcher's silent vigil. His eyes leapt to the clock over his desk before he grimaced. Nothing ever good came of a phone call at 4 in the morning, especially on the Hellmouth. The scratchy voice of the sleep-deprived woman on the other end had his eyes closing in mute misery. 'Giles, who is the White Queen, and does she have anything to do with why Buffy hasn't been home since yesterday evening? My baby... she's... Oh tell me it's all in my head Giles, tell me nothing's wrong and she's beside you and I can talk to her right now!'

He cringes reflexively. 'Ms. Summers- Joyce. How did you-? Nevermind. Unfortunately you are only partially correct, the dear girl _is_ beside me, but _(a fortifying breath)_ she is unable to reassure you as to her wellbeing. I am afraid I have been the recipient of perhaps the worst home delivery in history.'

'Oh God! Oh my God... Giles do you mean to tell me that someone has delivered my daughter to you? This is that Slayer nonsense she was going on about isn't it? That 'early expiration date'? So help me if she is dead! Oh God... she is, isn't she? I just know it. I woke up this morning with just the most awful feeling, and then someone knocked on my door. I thought perhaps Buffy had locked herself out after a long patrol, you know how forgetful she gets- oh _(a sob)_ –got. I found an envelope on the doorstep. There was a note, it just said "Black Knight takes White Queen" and there was your number written on the reverse! Oh God Giles who would write such a horrifying thing? I'm coming over now; I hope you don't plan on keeping me out when you have my little girl there'

'I wouldn't dream of it my dear; I told you my door is always open. I am so sorry it is under such terrible circumstances though. I have some things I need to share with you that I think would be best related in person. It appears- well- I hope I am not misinterpreting it but- Oh, just come over and I will let you see what it is for yourself.'

Just as the pale fingers of dawn begin stroking the horizon, a grieving mother reaches the last resting place of her child. She knocks quietly at the door and is immediately granted ingress. A heart-broken wail is heard, faintly. Then the half-light of the rising sun is left to brighten a diurnal course that no parent should have to bear, that day that they survive their own progeny.

'So what you are saying is that she was _SUPPOSED_ to just die?! That there was no choice and no way to prevent it?'

'It would appear that there was a slight chance that it wouldn't be necessary, but this prophecy deals with the assumption that the worst did in fact occur. The _hope_ is that my welsh is not so rusty as to have completely mangled the translation, that she is indeed supposed to return. I know it's a long shot my dear lady, but if I may? I believe it is entirely viable. She was a very special young lady, and the fact that there is such a clear instruction on retrieving her spirit makes it likely that the Powers are not done with her yet; it appears she is to become a Champion of sorts. Here, I'll show you what I have so far.'

Amidst the notes and crumpled paper is a piece of parchment very like the piece that she had received her cryptic note on. Underneath it is a line by line translation;

 _Ai Gwynnwy Banon chodymau , 'r byrddia hysgubir_

If White Queen falls, the board is swept

 _Mae'r Hyrwyddwr yn dysgu o'r newydd_

The Champion learns anew

 _Gwreichionen addysgir 'r rhyfelwyr chyfundrefn_

Spark is taught the warriors code

 _Dychwelodd i ymladd, ail-bendithio gan dynged_

Returned to fight, re-blessed by fate

 _Os Gwyliwr yn hedfan i ddal y seren_

If Watcher flies to catch the star

 _Mae disgleirdeb dros fynydd Saeson yn_

A brightness over Saeson's mount

 _Gwynnwy Blanc yn dwyn y llwybr cartref_

White Horse bears the pathway home

 _Achos Bencampwr - addysgedig rhyfelwr 'n grai_

For Champion-taught a warrior new

 _Hon 'na must 'r ceisiedydd arwedda_

This then must the seeker bear

 _At chyrch 'r Gwynnwy Banon addef_

To bring the White Queen home

 _A 'n euraid chlo, 'r Gwynnwy Banonau ddiwyg_

An golden lock, the White Queen's garb

 _Arian agoriad, er bob amser 'n awchlym_

An silver key, though ever sharp

 _A 'n goch 'r bannod chan Dadau asgre_

And red the line of Father's heart

 _Er e bod mo chrau 'r carennydd amlyma_

Though he be not blood the kinship clear

'And you think she's this White Queen? Who's the black knight that 'took' her? I think you are missing something here, is this all you have to go on?'

'Unfortunately yes, this is all. Judging by her wounds-'

'Oh God they hurt my poor baby! She's so pale' Joyce sobs. The shock is wearing off and it's hitting her hard.

'Judging by the wounds, she's been exsanguinated. That is, it was almost certainly a vampire. There is only one set of bite-marks, and given the fact that her throat is not torn out or mangled, she was no longer capable of struggling. Buffy has been highly resistant to thralls since her run-in with the Master last year, so I would hazard a guess that she fought a vampire of master status, who was either working alone or had lost all their minions by this point. They would have had to overpower her and incapacitate her for long enough to drain her. No simple task.'

'I don't care about all that, I just want my baby back. My poor Buffy!'

'Allow me to make you a cup of tea Joyce, we can discuss what needs to be done and make a plan. I still need to go through some of my books.'


	4. Ch4: What Now?

CH4

He had a headache. Which was strange, bein' dead ought to exempt you from the maladies of the soddin' human condition. Only time his head should throb was when it got clobbered. * _Remember that blond fire-cracker? She made it hurt so good._ * He'd found Dru o'course, wanderin' downtown Sunnyhell like it was her soddin' backyard. The pixies had done a right number on her this time. She'd been soaking wet and stumbling vacant-eyed from streetlight to streetlight, face flickering to demon-glare and back again like a poorly tuned telly. At least it appeared she'd eaten, her lower face and chest were blood-smeared.

He glanced at her in the passenger seat beside him. She'd been sub-vocalising for over an hour now, and between the animalistic whining and off-key humming he was about ready to go completely _spare_. * _That's it_ * -click-

 _Mama, where's your little daughter?_

 _She's here, right here on the altar_

 _You should never have opened that door_

 _now you're never gonna see her no more_

 _You don't know what I can do with this axe chop off your head_

 _so you better relax_

He smirked, * _Well ain't that cute?_ * turned the radio up til he couldn't hear Dru anymore, and kept driving.

* * *

'I'll just go on a buying trip Mr Giles, I can put it on business expenses then, and I have a few contacts there who've wanted to meet me for a while.'

'Well that will cover your coming then. I can simply go back and report- No I can't actually. If I report Buffy's demise to the Council they'll have no reason to let me come back, and once Buffy is re-corporealised she'll need me back here. I shall instead go under the premise of a research trip, there is a veritable cornucopia of books I haven't access to at the Council Headquarters Library'

'Mr Giles, a thought occurs to me, what are we supposed to tell her friends? I wouldn't wish to worry them, and if we are going to get her back it seems cruel to tell them what has happened.'

'Quite. I had thought… Perhaps… I have something. There is a sort of vision quest between a Watcher and his charge, sometimes. If I were to intimate that she was unable to communicate at this time- which would be a perfect truth- We could stave off their undue worry and gain some lee-way in which to work on gaining her back. It might be best to avoid telling Angel altogether, he knows a little more about the sorts of rituals and activities of Slayers and their Watchers than do Xander and Willow. You can probably let the school know that she is going on holiday with you and get her schoolwork, which would support the theory of her quest to her friends, and satisfy that berk Snyder and her teachers as to her keeping up with the syllabus.'

'You know, I somehow doubt that vile little man is ever satisfied about anything.'

Giles chuckled at that, almost surprised that he could under the circumstances. Joyce smiled wanly as she stood, taking her empty cup to the sink before gathering her coat and handbag near the entryway. 'Do keep in touch Mr Giles, let me know when you have the tickets and when we leave.'

'Oh not for a good two weeks my dear, I have some things I need to organise, and some people to contact. There is a coven in Devon that might be able to help, and I know a Watcher friend in Wales who might be able to clear a few things up in regards to this prophecy of ours. We WILL get Buffy back Ms Summers-'

'Oh for Heavens sakes call me Joyce already! We know each other far too well for this formal nonsense.'

'Quite. Well you mustn't feel the need to be formal with me either, Ms- I mean, Joyce. Do be careful on your way back. I'll make arrangements to leave town now, you can let Buffy's friends know she's gone with me. This way we can keep them from finding out she's gone already.'

* * *

Buffy looked around curiously as she followed the larger woman from the room she'd woken up in. Stone walls, big carpet-looking things hung from the walls in some places, and the windows were tiny, barely wider than her hand. There were torches on the walls and how weird was that? Did these people not know about electricity? After navigating a horrifyingly steep flight of stairs * _Why are there no handrails? Vertigo-Buffy demands handrails!_ *

A rhythmic sound in the distance, muffled by the thick walls, grew steadily louder, until she passed a door that opened onto a large courtyard with a dirt floor. There was a group of about 16 students, ranging in age from what looked like an eight year old, to a young man in his twenties. They all faced off in pairs, and were sparring with wooden staves under the stern glare of a rugged one-eyed man. He was barking instructions as they struggled to keep their opponents from connecting with a hit. 'Come away from that door, dearie, plenty of time to get acquainted to thy fellows after tha's had some refreshment. Tha'll begin thy training on the morrow, bright and early. This afternoon tha'll see the book learnin' for thy stay here.'

Buffy groaned, * _I can't even die to escape school. That's it, I'm SURE now that I'm in some sort of Hell dimension_ * but made no comment as she trudged behind her guide, still yawning and rubbing at her eyes.

* * *

He wasn't sure where it had all gone to pot, but he _knew_ he was in some deep shit when this was all over. * _She definitely wasn't s'posed to snuff it this early. Ah hell. What'll I tell 'em? What CAN I tell 'em? "Sorry, got the wrong guy, the right one slipped under the radar, I lost him and now he's gone and screwed the pooch?" I was SURE this guy was it, he has a soul for Pete's sake. Now what do I do?_ *

Wincing as he felt the pull on his spirit, the ugly little man bowed his head and winked out of this plane. The place he ended up in wasn't so much a dimension as it was the _between_ of it all. It always disoriented him, the way the negative space affected his vision. His stomach roiled with the pull of all the conflicting energies. Beings such as he was did not belong here, and the multiverse tried to correct that by shunting them across to the closest (but that was inaccurate, you could get to anywhere-or when- from here) dimension that would have them. Something like sweat broke out on his brow and he mopped at it, held here by the will of more powerful beings than he.

 _-WHISTLER-_

* _Ah Hells, here we go_ *

- _CARE TO EXPLAIN WHAT EXACTLY HAS OCCURRED HERE?_ -

* _Sounds just like my Mother_ * 'Uh, sure Boss. I uh- well, funny story really…'

- _REALLY? FUNNY STORY. FUNNY, THAT YOU HAVE SO FAILED YOUR GIVEN TASK, A SIMPLE REQUEST, THAT OUR CHOSEN LIES DEAD ON HER HOME PLANE? FUNNY, THAT INSTEAD OF SENDING HER TO YNYS SCI_ AFTER _SHE COMES OF AGE, WE ARE FORCED TO SALVAGE HER SOUL BEFORE IT MOVES ON TO ELYSIUM AND POUR IT INTO A HASTILY BUILT SIMULACRUM OF HER OWN BODY TWO YEARS BEFORE IT IS TIME? THAT KIND OF FUNNY?_ -

He gave a wheezing chuckle of incipient panic. 'Uh, when you put it like that… kinda doesn't sound so good for me, does it?'

- _AND YOU ARE ONLY JUST NOW CATCHING ON? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH MORE WORK YOU'VE CREATED WITH THIS DEBACLE? WE HAD TO CREATE A TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT AND PUSH A SEER INTO A TRANCE, JUST SO THAT WE HAD A CONTINGENCY PROPHECY FOR THIS. YOU HAD BETTER HOPE THAT THIS IS SALVAGEABLE BECAUSE WITH YOUR LITTLE MUCK-UP BUFFY'S DEATH HAS BECOME IMMUTABLE WITHIN THIS TIMELINE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, WHISTLER? YOU CAN'T FIX THIS BY REWINDING THE CLOCK, IT WILL_ ALWAYS _HAPPEN_.-

'So what do I do? Am I even still on this case? If this is unfixable wouldn't it be better to just- I dunno- let this one go? You've done it before, letting a dimension follow through to a natural end, wouldn't that make things simpler?'

- _WE_ COULD _DO THIS. IT WOULD CERTAINLY BE EASIER. HOWEVER, WE THOUGHT TO GIVE YOU A CHANCE AT CONTINUED EXISTENCE. HOWEVER, IF YOU WISH FOR OBLIVION WE WON'T ARGUE._ -

'I don't understand, how does my life connect to wipin' the slate here?'

- _REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE FIRST EMPOWERED TO WORK FOR US? WHICH DIMENSION DID WE PULL YOU FROM? DID YOU KNOW, THAT IF THAT DIMENSION CEASED TO EXIST DUE TO THE APOCALYPSE EVENT YOU'VE TRIGGERED WITH YOUR NEGLIGENCE, THAT YOU TOO WOULD CEASE TO EXIST? WE ARE NOT OMNIPOTENT, THOUGH IT IS A NEAR THING. EVEN WE WORK WITHIN PARAMETERS._ -

'Oh.'

- _YES. "OH". YOU STILL HAVE A LITTLE TIME. THERE IS HOPE THAT WHAT OUR CHAMPION LEARNS WILL ACTUALLY LEAD HER TO A CONCLUSION THAT ALLOWS FOR THE CONTINUED EXISTENCE OF YOUR HOME PLANE. THERE IS EVEN A CHANCE THAT OUR OUTSIDE WAGER WILL BEGIN DOWN THE PATH HE WAS BEING GROOMED FOR, DESPITE THE SHEER UNLIKELINESS OF THIS OCCURRING WITHOUT OUTSIDE INTERVENTION. THANKFULLY WE STILL HAVE PIECES IN PLAY TO ASSIST YOU. WHAT WE NEED FROM YOU NOW WHISTLER, IS FOR YOU TO RETURN, AND SET THIS PLAY IN MOTION_ -

His head is flooded suddenly with information. Clutching his now throbbing skull, Whistler is winked out of existence as his superiors' attention shifts from him. * _Coulda been worse I guess. Least I only gotta play Cupid to a pair of super-stubborn super-beings. Piece a cake! Dimensions' continued existence only relies on it, nothin to worry about. I got this. No pressure._ *

* * *

Angel was a little perturbed. Buffy hadn't shown up last night, and she'd taken to following him around like an overgrown puppy of late. It was kinda cute, with a perverse and star-crossed-Romeo-Juliet kinda vibe to it. He tried to feel ashamed that her naive innocence and barely mature body turned him on so badly, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Both as Liam and Angelus he'd reveled in fresh-faced youth, the younger the better. That wasn't to say that he'd not enjoyed the more experienced skill-set of slightly older women, most notably his Sire Darla, who'd been turned in her late twenties. But the fact remained that there was something about the budding breasts and slim hips of a young woman.

Liam had been a rakehell and a drunken layabout, Angelus took a darker kind of pleasure in corrupting innocents. Angel had a century to ponder the depths of his depravity, snowed under by a crushing sense of guilt and shame, but it wasn't enough to quite smother the pleasure he remembered. His demon might be chained now by the curse, but it still hungered, and he'd never be free of that appetite.

He'd kept away from Buffy for as long as he could, but since she was apparently part of his journey of redemption he couldn't leave altogether. Slowly his resolve had weakened, and he found himself under her window almost nightly, trailing her on patrols and once, even kissing her. That last had been a monumental mistake and he'd nearly lost control, vamping out briefly and scaring the lass silly. Funny that she hadn't suspected he was a vampire until that night, but he thought maybe it was because of the soul, or simply that she hadn't _wanted_ him to be a vampire. Infatuation was blind and the way she looked at him with her heart in her eyes was gratifying and intoxicating. He'd always loved that soft bedroom gaze, right before he tor- No! He wasn't like that anymore, he wasn't _Angelus_ anymore.

He sighed, scrubbing his face. This redemption business was hard going apparently. Suddenly, there was a pop of displaced air behind him. He whirled, hands up defensively, before dropping them and grimacing. It was that odd, ugly little guy that'd dragged him from the sewers and shown him his destiny. 'Hello Whistler, what's going on?'


	5. Ch5: First Impressions

She didn't know what she'd expected, but this certainly wasn't it. MorningBuffy knew what made a good breakfast; it was caffeine-y mocha goodness, with a side of deep-fried carbohydrates in doughnut shape. This most emphatically was not what was in front of her. For one, it needed a bowl to hold it, and for another it was kinda, lumpy? And tan-coloured. Even the pancakes? Oddly lumpy, but sort of a cross between pancakes and doughnuts, if doughnuts or pancakes had flecks of dried fruit in them. At least there was butter, and plenty of it. A small pot of honey too, and what appeared to be tea. This was all well and good if you were _Giles_ , but the people of the world on perpetual night-shift needed something a bit stronger in the morning, just to help them face the day.

After trying the contents of the bowl she grimaced and set it aside. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't what she'd have chosen for breakfast. It was thick and buttery and studded with dried apple, but it stuck to the roof of her mouth a little. Reaching for one of the pancake-looking things, she tore it in half and smeared some butter on it with her spoon. Taking a bite she closed her eyes for a moment. * _Definitely fried yummy goodness. I could get used to these_ * Turning to the mug in front of her she added a little honey and took a sip, figuring caffeine in any form was better than nothing. Her eyes widened and she gagged a little, choking at the unexpected flavour. It tasted of flowers and faintly of dirt, mixed with a strong honey aroma. Definitely not any tea she was used to. She eyed it in consternation. * _How am I gonna make it through a day without decent tea even? I'm so gonna kill that bleached freak!_ *

Giving up on the 'tea' she returned to the fried bread things. Slathering butter over another one, this time she drizzled honey on it as well, and cramming a huge bite down she chewed with gusto. Since her guide appeared to have vanished, and there was nobody else in the large hall, Buffy figured that there was little use complaining out loud. It just wasn't as satisfying when no-one could hear you. Having depleted the slightly chewy doughnut wannabes, she turned with a sigh to the bowl of lukewarm cereal. She was still fairly hungry * _I guess dying really takes it out of you, who knew?_ * so she ended up scraping the bowl clean in fairly short order. * _Never gonna be my favourite, but at least it's filling_ *

As if sensing that she'd finished, her guide bustled back into the hall, presumably to guide her to her afternoon tutor. 'Leave thy dishes here Sunshine, tha needs be getting a move on, thy instructor awaits.' Buffy grimaced, but stood. As they strode down the passageway, still heading away from the room she'd woken in, the Slayer questioned her companion. What she learned didn't really help her much, but she did find out that the lady she was following went by Ceri here, which was a place called Ynys Sci, and apparently, a warrior school of great renown. To hear Ceri talking about it, it was where heroes came to learn their craft, and Champions left when deemed worthy. 'Tha did come a mite too early Dearheart, hence thy time is limited more closely than most. 'Tis much more common that tha hast five turns of the seasons at the very least, and it was planned thus for tha, til tha had that unfortunate altercation with thy mortal foe.'

'I'm gonna just pretend I understood all that, ok? I mean, your accent is pretty tough to figure out ya know? So, I kinda got that normally I'd, what, be here for five years? Kinda like Slayer College? Only I'm early on account of biting the big one and so I only get a crash course? Is that it?'

'Sommat like that dearie. Tha'll be brought back in due time, shouldst tha need it, an fer the proper length of time. Happen it goes faster here, tha'll find only a month or two has passed in thy homeland.'

Digesting that little tidbit would take some time, so she simply followed Ceri as she was led further into the sprawling pile that was apparently to be her home for the next subjective year. It was wiggy enough that she was seemingly solid enough to require food and drink after having died. The passageway they followed took an abrupt turn, and through the wide doorway at the far end she could make out an immense library of some sort. She could also hear the rich, sonorous tones of a man reciting an odd poem.

 _"I was the foreman_

 _At the construction of Nimrod's Tower._

 _I was three times_

 _In the prison of Arianrhod._

On the surface it made a strange sort of sense in places.

 _"I was at the Cross_

 _With Mary Magdalene._

 _I received the muse_

 _From Ceridwen's cauldron._

But the way he spoke the words, as if telling a tale of his own life, made the meaning seem ridiculous. No man could have lived to see the Crucifixion, not if they were alive today.

 _"I was at the White Mount_

 _in the court of Cynfelyn._

 _In stocks and in fetters_

 _For a year and a day._

 _"I was in the larder_

 _In the land of the Trinity._

 _And no-one knows whether my body_

 _Is flesh or fish._

 _"I was instructor_

 _To the whole universe._

 _I shall be until the judgement_

 _On the face of the Earth._

Ceri grinned indulgently as she came to a halt outside the doors. 'Thy teacher is in a rare good mood Sunshine. 'Tis his favourite poesy he speaks. One of his first,' so saying, she ushered her charge forward, and when Buffy turned to thank her for the direction, she had vanished. * _Odd, there aren't any doors nearby, and not even a starved cat could get through these windows_ *

Shrugging, she headed into the large, book filled room. She couldn't see anyone from her quick glance around the place, but there were so many floor-to-ceiling shelves in the area it was like a maze, with the only clear space a large central circle, marked out with desks and benches. There was the odd chair or two as well, but the centre of the room was what caught her attention.

The clear space in the middle was cordoned off by chalked symbols and oddly glowing daubs of some kind of ink, worked into an intricate pattern. Buffy found her eyes refusing to focus on it, sliding off to view it from her periphery. The lines seemed to pulsate, drawing her in and making her head spin. Dizzy, she felt herself stumbling forward, almost against her will. In fact, when she tried to stop and catch her breath for a moment, nothing happened. Beginning to panic a little she opened her mouth-

'Don't speak a word you foolish child! Do you have any idea what you almost did? Has nobody taught you not to interrupt a body in the middle of a working?! By the Teeth of Blessed Epona, you are the most ignorant wench!'

Green eyes ignited in fury at the sight of an irate twenty-something suddenly appearing in front of her with his hand over her mouth. His shoulder-length hair was dark red and coarse, with a white streak at his brow. Deep-set hazel eyes snapped with irritation at her supposed intrusion, and she huffed indignantly before opening her mouth again in protest. 'Quiet I said! Not one word until I am finished with this. If anyone else speaks within 20 feet of this ring the whole thing will end in disaster. I have absolutely no wish at all to spend the next decade as a tree, do you hear me?' She sullenly nodded, eyes still sparkling with anger. 'Good. Now sit down, keep your pretty pink lips shut and touch nothing until I tell you it's safe.' Fuming, Buffy sat down- hard- on one of the few chairs, tucking her hands between her knees and turning her head from the nauseating lines of power.

* _This is his GOOD mood? Holy crapola. What a jerk!_ *

'I heard that, girl. Hush. No distractions. Go meditate or something.' Her best slayerly glare goes completely un-noticed as the lanky man raises his arms and chants yet another verse that doesn't make much sense. Mostly because it's in a guttural demony-sounding language. When he finishes, he claps his hands and with a flash the screwy pattern vanishes. He turns to her with a grin. 'The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space; the beginning of every end, and the end of every place.'

'Huh?' An incredulous face.

A condescending smirk. 'Freya's Tits girl, are you truly dense? It's the most commonly used letter in the English alphabet.'

'I'm supposed to know that off the top of my head? I'm the Slayer! I kill things without a heartbeat, I don't get extra credit for knowing weird stuff about how I talk.'

'Well that is unacceptable. Just because you might die at any time is no excuse to slack off on your education.' He turns away and strides off into the stacks. Sulkily she stays where she was seated, still angered almost beyond reason by this supremely annoying man. * _Just who the heck does he think he IS anyway?_ *

Wafting from the direction he'd disappeared in, as if in direct response to her thoughts;

 _"Primary chief poet_

 _Am I to Elphin._

 _And my native country_

 _Is the place of the Summer Stars._

 _"John the Divine_

 _Called me Merlin,_

 _But all future kings_

 _Shall call me Taliesin._

 _"I was nine full months_

 _In the womb of Ceridwen._

 _Before that I was Gwion,_

 _But now I am Taliesin._

When he wandered back some 20 minutes later, he had an small stack of books piled in his arms. She peered warily at them, it all looked suspiciously like- 'Homework. I want you to read at least one of these by tomorrow afternoon and be ready to discuss it with me. I'm going to be your primary guide for the cerebral stuff, and gods willing you'll actually get somewhere by the time you toddle off back to the Mundane.'

'Um… We kind of haven't been introduced yet? I'm-'

'I know who you are, girl. If you had been listening at all since you got here you'd know who I am. I practically spelled it out for you after all.' A long-suffering grimace accompanies this remark, and he shoves the pile of books at her. 'Now scoot, I have important things to attend to.'

Startled at the rude dismissal, she grabbed the books before they fell and stumbled around towards the door. *So gonna end up screaming at this guy. 'More important stuff-' What. An. Ass*

'Hey! I resemble that.'

* * *

 **'Hello Whistler, what's going on?'**

* _Wonder how far around his head would spin if I told him the half of what I gotta deal with right now?_ * 'Well we've hit a bit of a snag here kid, seems our Slayer has gone dark, off the radar so to speak. I need you to cover for us until we can bring her back.'

'What do you mean, 'gone dark'? What the hell is going on? She hasn't patrolled at all in the last three days, where is she?'

'Well see, that's the thing, kid. She's been sorta recalled by the PTB for some extra training stuff. We need you to watch the Hellmouth for her for about a month or so, two tops.'

'Wait, what? Why me? Isn't there anyone else? What about my destiny? I should be wherever Buffy is.'

'Yeah sure kid, there's another girl, but she won't get here for a week or two, there's some stuff tyin' her down in Jamaica and that leaves us with a vulnerable Hellmouth. You gonna do it or do I tell the PTB you ain't interested in redemption?'

'I'll stay. I gotta make sure it's safe for when she gets back, don't I?'

'Sure kid' *Whatever it takes to keep you here anyway*


	6. Ch6: What A Man Does

You'd think a blood-reliant species would recognise its distant relations, but the sodding mosquitoes still bit him whenever he'd fed. Gods he hated Brazil at times. Beautiful place, plenty of scantily dressed snacks and the heat made them smell _so_ much more intoxicating. But the bugs left something to be desired, and Dru was more distant than the moon. The last time she'd touched him in her right mind had been that night she'd slapped him for _saving_ her. Things you do for the woman, an' half the time she won't even look at you without screamin' 'bout the fucking sunshine. He'd half a mind to walk outside of a morning just to show her why he'd taste of ashes if he played with sunlight.

He flicked his lighter on and off, watching the flint striker spark and catch at the tiny stream of butane to create light and heat. Such a small thing to be so deadly to his kind. _Beautiful_. It danced like sunlight through leaves, and how he remembered _that_ but not his middle names from his human years was beyond him. Grinning idly he thought about other dances he'd had over the years. When he'd been first turned, the violence fresh and the blood scalding, a dance with Drusilla down a corpse-strewn room in their blood-soaked finery was the height of exhilaration. Later, when Angelus had taken him in hand, it had been learning the joys (and boredoms, God, the Forehead could drag it out to the bitterest most dull extremity) of the hunt. The thrill of adrenaline pumping down his throat with the blood of his victims. _Too hasty_ , he was deemed, and the bog-trotting poofter would take to beating him to a bloody pulp time and time again. Torturing him when this failed to instil the proper _caution and finesse_ of an apex hunter. Ha! Give him a pint of blood, a bottle of whisky, and a stand-up knock-down and he was in paradise. The bigger the challenge, the more his blood heated.

All that had led him to seeking the biggest game his kind could aspire to. The _Slayer_. One girl in all the world, et cetera. What started as a threat to curb him after his latest mob brawl, instead whetted a craving for the biggest challenge of them all. Find the Light's one flame and snuff it out in a glorious confrontation. These warrior-maids, and have no doubt, even the least among them was a formidable opponent, were Called up one by one to do battle against the Dark in a neverending cycle of noble sacrifice. The instant one died, another, somewhere in the world, was Called to her duty. It was poetry.

He could dance for eternity with these bright valkyries and barring the universe going down in flames he'd always have another partner at the end. If he made it past the current one that is. Christ, the amount of times he'd nearly dusted to one. He'd only truly won two- no, three now, of these epic clashes, but he'd fought a fair few more. Usually the circumstances weren't right for one reason or another. Either the Slayer was too new and thus not enough of a challenge, so he'd back off to let her grow, only to have her felled by another, or he'd only catch up with her when she was too injured to take him on. Those often died from other agencies before they could heal, if they were hurt that badly in the field chances were that they never made it home. The others were wrong some other way, either he wouldn't find them in time, or there'd be something off about them and he'd back off sight unseen. Hell, some of them just didn't have that _readiness_ to die about them. He left those alone. All except one. The last one. The one who died to save his Dark Princess. Gods she'd been fucking _effulgent_ , simply exuding life and goodness. And he'd doused the spark before it had truly ignited. What a blaze she'd have been. If a demon could feel regret… No. His face twisted in a sneer. What was he, fucking _Peaches?!_ Some brooding, soul-up-arse ponce? He'd saved his lover, his ripe wicked plum and _nothing_ would make him regret that. He'd kill a hundred, a _thousand_ just like her to save his immortal goddess.

Shaking off his oddly introspective mood, he stalked back into the mansion he'd cleared for his princess when they'd arrived in Salvador. Snatching his keys from the side-table near the entrance Spike left the residence without bothering to inform Dru. He just wasn't up to listening to her moan about white queens or sodding sunshine or any-bloody-thing right now. He was disgruntled, hungry, and if he were anyone else but the Slayer of Slayers you'd be right to call him a little petulant. Things were supposed to get easier in the wake of killing a Slayer. They always had before. Dru would fawn over him for months afterwards, treating him to her voluptuous affections, untrammelled by her visions, or flash-backs. Sometimes she'd be almost entirely lucid, the only indications of her affliction being her tendency to speak to her dollies as if they were responding to her. And then the pixies would eventually return to plague her. This time she'd disappeared for a night and he'd had to hunt her down. She'd been almost catatonic when he'd found her, and hadn't responded to much beyond blood until he'd gotten them to Brazil. It'd been worth it to freight his beloved DeSoto instead of abandoning or storing it. With luck they wouldn't be returning to California for at least a year.

With the windows rolled down and some Latin American punk station making his ears throb, Spike pulled up a few streets from some hot joint he'd sussed out the other night. There weren't all that many clubs in Salvador, surprisingly; it was a city that ran more to massive street parties. Great come-as-you-are affairs, wall-to-wall people and noise that was almost tangible. He loved it. The feeling of great masses of humanity casually crowding around him, brushing past, getting caught up in the pulsating life and exuberance of a city-wide celebration. But sometimes he liked the relative peace and quiet of one of the dance-bars. He just wanted a quiet meal and maybe a drink or two.

He wasn't really choosy tonight, but this one bird pricked his demons' interest. Petite, brunette, and a hell of a dancer. He caught her eye and winked with an enticing smirk. She laughed and danced toward him, arms up in the air twining sinuously, hips writhing sinfully as she strutted over. He coaxed her to the bar and bought her a drink, gradually herding her towards the back exit that opened into an alley. Once there he lost no time, vamping out and slicing into her throat. Her initial struggles slowed as she gave a throaty moan, the terror adding spice to his supper.

He sealed her wounds and released the woman without processing it, and she dropped unconscious to the alley floor. He wiped his mouth on his hand, licking up the residue, before propping his victim against the wall, right beside the service entrance to the club. Lighting a cigarette Spike sauntered back within the pulsing semi-dark, duster swirling in his wake. Hunger still prickled through his veins, making the demon within restless. He barely registered that he'd left his meal half-finished, and thought nothing of topping up on a pretty young blonde as he passed back through the venue. He left her slumped insensible in a darkened booth along the wall. She'd be assumed to be drunk and shouldn't come to too much grief there. Shaking his head irritably, he was left confused by that thought; since when did he care about the well-being of _cattle_?

As he drove back to where he and Dru had nested, the raucous strains of Release the Bats drove all thoughts of dinner from his mind.

* * *

'I-is Buffy around? She was supposed to go over her maths assignment with me last night and she never showed up. I th-thought maybe she had a long patrol or something, but she didn't come to school today either, and now I'm all with the worry girl and maybe she's sick, o-or did something happen is she hurt maybe? Sh-she isn't hurt is she?'

'Oh, I'm so sorry, didn't she tell you? That girl is so scatterbrained at times! Giles came over about some sort of Slayer Retreat thing. A Vision Quest I think he said? Apparently when a Slayer is called who wasn't tutored by Watchers as a Potential, they often send her to a training camp. Unfortunately while she is there we can't contact her personally, but it's only for a month or so, so she'll be back before you know it. I do wish she'd called you beforehand though, this is entirely like her to forget I'm afraid.'

Anyone who knew Joyce would have seen immediately through her thin excuses and strained voice to the distraught woman beneath the facade, but Willow was too concerned about the perceived slight of her friend to notice that Joyce wasn't being entirely honest. * _At least I can still fool a teenager. Go me!_ * she thought bitterly. 'If you would be a dear and perhaps let Xander know for me? I simply must get organised for this purchasing trip. I'll be gone a few weeks myself.'

'O-ok Mrs Summers. I think I can do that. I'm all with the information now. A-are you going to be ok? You sound kinda funny… not that you are! I mean-'

'I'm fine dear, thank you for asking. I'm just a little under the weather and pre-occupied is all.'

'Ok! I'll just hang up now cuz I gotta call Xander, so I'll say bye now Mrs Summers! Bye.'

* _Oh baby, please don't be truly gone! I hope this is going to work, I can't bear to lose my precious girl like this._ *


	7. Ch7: Beyond The Usual

He sniggered to himself as he jotted notes down. The quill scratched steadily in the candle-light as he recalled the look on her face. Utterly priceless. Obviously the chit was young, but there was a lot of potential for her to become something quite extraordinary. There was so much to do and not enough time to do it all. A year and a day may be the mythical standard but hell if it didn't tighten the schedule to breaking point. You could only stretch the temporal cloth so far before it tore, and he still had to keep things on the other side from unravelling. With a sigh he put aside his pen and sanded the sheet.

What did Mother think she was doing anyway? If she wasn't careful, she'd give the game away before it began, and who knew what would happen then. Fine- fine, tell her she'd died. It was necessary after all- but really, it was as if she took the girl at face value, accepting her apparent lack of sense without question. Which was not only silly, it was bloody _dangerous_. They had a mission that went far beyond merely giving the girl some pointers, and he for one could not afford to lose this gambit. The other side had almost all of the pieces and none of the vulnerabilities. Time to reinforce the prophecy and re-educate his friend.

* * *

Gile picked the phone up on the second ring. He'd been pacing by the wall where it hung now for a good half-hour, waiting for this call. 'Hello? Morgan?'

'Yes old chap, it's me. I think I've got something for you. Know those verses you sent me? It's interesting. Is that all you've got with you?'

'Quite. My welsh isn't excellent, but even I had picked up there were some pieces missing.'

A snort was audible over the crackle of the transatlantic call, 'Pieces? Try nearly the whole thing, mate. Which codex did you translate from?'

' _Telcham's Minutes_. I only had one book on hand with anything from the 11th century. Left most of my library across the pond with you. Remember that shipment you got six years ago?'

'No wonder. Look, Telcham was a nit. He only did previews of this stuff. There's some really important bits you aren't seeing. This is enough to go on for the ritual, but you're gonna need to come over to my place when you get here and do some proper bloody research before you start messin' with this business. She's already gone, I take it? You've lost the White Queen?'

Giles inhaled and replied miserably, 'Yes. Buffy's gone. We're not sure who it was but it had to have been a Master-strength vampire, she was exsanguinated and quite bloodless when I found her.'

'Before you start trying to find out who it was, you better hear this mate, I have a piece I found just before I called.' There was a pause, as Morgan cleared his throat, then he spoke with a lilting accent, ' _Ganwyd gan olau i wynebu'r tywyll_

 _'r Brenhines Gwen gweithfa ar ei ben ei hun_

 _Dan Orfod gan ffawd i rannu yn dau_

 _Mae'r llinell o ryfelwyr unigol Golau yn_

 _Bannau hun at Dynged , a hun at arwain pawb_

 _Nawr tynged twyllo, ymgais droi_

 _Setiau ddua farchog erbyn 'r ddiwrnod_

 _Annwfn s rhyfelwr_ _ymddengys_ _, eiddo ddyled amlyma_

 _A chwblha 'i 'n gariadlawn._

 _Dan 'r fiswrn 'r caethesau asgre gwylmabsantau,_

 _llychwinedig gwynnwy ydy 'n frith._

That's just the part that confirms for sure the identity of the White Queen. Did you or anyone close to her get anything besides that scrap of ritual?'

'Ah, yes. her mother has known of her Calling since last summer. She apparently received a note which used chess terms to tell her Buffy was gone. I believe it was; "Black Knight takes White Queen" and it was rather upsetting for her.'

'No kidding. Nothing else? Ok. The reason I asked was because you need to know this; the Black Knight is central to this whole saga, and not just because he cuts her down. There's more to it than that. Listen, I'll give you the translation;

 _Born by light to face the dark_

 _The White Queen works alone_

 _Forced by fate to split in twain_

 _The line of Light's lone warriors_

 _Branches one to Destiny, and one to carry all_

 _Now fate deceived, attempts recourse_

 _Sets black knight against the day_

 _Hell's hero appears, his duty clear_

 _And he fulfils it lovingly. Beneath the mask_

 _The Thrall's heart wakes, tarnished white is grey_ '

'Now fate deceived… is that referring to there being two Slayer lines? Or that Buffy cheated death, yet allowed another to be Called?' Giles frowned as he tried to tease the essential parts of the verse into a recognisable pattern.

'The auguries show there's only one Slayer line, and besides, Council Heads don't know she's dead because no new Slayer has been called after that one in Jamaica. I'd say it was her cheating death. Given that line though; " _forced by fate to split in twain_ ", I'd venture a guess that she'll head a new line, of Champions most like, given the prophecy's contents. I'd get back to you with whatever else I find in the next week, but chances are I won't have anything and you'll have to wait until you get back to England to catch up with me.'

Morgan smiled as he planted the subtle suggestions in the head of his colleague. He knew that Rupert would worry at them and form theories of his own, and for now at least he'd distracted him from hunting down whoever had slain his little girl. He looked down at the pages before him, line after line of predictions, that for all their apparent age hadn't existed even a week before.

Damn he was tired of this leapfrogging. Scrabbling to prevent paradox and apocalypse together, inducing visions and holding the hands of beings who should really know better than to delegate to sub-par subordinates. He set the circle to take him a month into the past and sideways, and slipped into some less anachronistic clothing before stepping into the glowing centre.

* * *

Miss Edith is a dreadful liar, always telling us the pixies mean no harm. Malicious tricksy creatures, stealing all my cake, and how's a girl to have a proper tea with no cake? It was hardly a picnic without sunshine, but unless the White gambit paid off it would only be moonlit strolls for Miss Edith. Nasty creatures, scrabbling and skittering like hungry rats. _Scritch Scritch_ in my skull- _Scritch Scritch,_ until I think that my hair shall fall right out and leave me bald. My sweet poet tells me it shall never happen but even he doesn't know the terrible things the moon whispers to me.

It is nearly time to set the doggy free. He has been such a loyal pet, but he belongs to another, and my time with him is almost done. I can feel it getting closer… closer to the time… Daddy's nearly home. And his little girl shall be there in a pretty dress to greet him!

My poet wishes to keep me, but William strains at the leash to be free. Find the spark, ignite the flame.

* * *

Bursting into the mansion, Spike grinned as the doors bounced off the walls with a satisfying crash. He eyed them critically as they swung back. The one on the right wouldn't last much longer if he were any judge, the top hinge was loose. He could hear Dru off in the bowels of the dwelling, and the screams of one of her 'toys'. He made sure to keep a handful of minions around, no-one too independent, just someone who wasn't him to do the domestic. Like fix the doors, let Dru express her artistic side. She was a dab hand at torture thanks to good ol' Angelus, but her favourite pastime was to paint. Great swirls of dusty red on canvas, murals of violence. She'd bleed a minion out slowly, using its' blood to lay down the base-coat, then when they were nearly dry she'd dust them and mix it in for a greasy texture that dried not unlike oil-paint. Sure the colours weren't all that varied, there were only so many shades of red in blood, but he loved how she managed to make it seem fresh and new every time.

He strolled up to her and grabbed her by the back of her skull, twirling her into his arms, heedless of the stains that crawled up her arms like evening gloves. 'What's my Plum painting for us, hmm?'

'Miss Edith insists it's the night sky, but the pixies tell all. Souls are crying, pinned to the wall like lovely…' she turned her face up for his kiss, chaste on her nose, 'lovely...' dragging his lips down her cheek, he nuzzled into her throat with tiny nips and licks, 'butterflies. Am I a pretty butterfly, my poet?'

'The darkest, prettiest one of all, my sweet. Have you had anything for tea?'

'Only a lonely turtledove. She cried for her love, but he'd flown quite away. She tasted of tears and despair, so sweet.'

He looked at her with a slight frown. 'That was two days gone love, did you eat anything tonight? Or yesterday? I've been a bad, rude man ignoring you like this. Here, have some of mine.' He turned his head to the side in a submissive gesture for his Sire, inviting her to take. Drusilla wrinkled her nose, almost as if in disgust, and turned away. He looked gutted for an instant, then his face turned to stone. 'Did I do something my sweet? Are you angry at your Spike, Dru- baby- are you feeling ok?'

* _Sodding ponce. You just crawl back every time she kicks you, innit?_ * His fey lover looked at him with hollow eyes. 'Can't taste you anymore, my poet, sunshine has quite burnt your taste from my lips. Only ashes for princess. Sunshine and regrets for you.'

His head jerked back as if slapped. * _There it is again. What sunshine? I haven't regretted anything since I woke up dead. What the buggering fuck is she on about?! And she's fading again. Dammit, I fixed this! I drained that slayer dry to FIX this, what's bloody wrong with her?_ *

'Sugar-plum. Dru- darling. Thought we healed you. Why're you off your feed again? You're fading like you did after Prague. Wasn't that Slayer enough? Should we go find you another?' * _Gods he hated feeling helpless like this. It was as bad as when he watched his mother coughing her lungs red from consumption, and he knew as little about how to fix this as he had back then._ *

Dru just shook her finger at him in reproof. 'Sweet cake will fill but not nourish, you naughty boy. Mustn't eat our pudding before our meat. How can I have any pudding if I don't eat my meat?'

'And what meat is this, my princess? Shall I find a strapping lad for you to sup on? Some beef-head with no neck and broad shoulders?'

She giggled at his ire, which succeeded in bringing out the tic in his clenched jaw. 'Blood of stone, my love. Blood of the fallen. Blood makes and breaks and binds. _In the Vale, 'neath Heavens' Eye_. In Darkness it winds, and though sparks light the path they'll soon be snuffed out- Poof- into the night with Princess.' Twirling away, her hair flared out like thistledown as she spun, faster and faster. Just before he stepped forward and caught her, she sank down prettily on her knees in a move that The Head Wanker had taught her to please him.

He dropped his head in his hand and scrubbed his face with it. Blowing through his fingers, Spike thought long and hard. His head snapped up again. He hated to remember what an utter ponce Pratt had been, but it looked as though he'd no choice. He shuddered. It was time to hit the books. And he knew just the place to start, the largest comprehensive collection of tomes on magical phenomena and demonology on this side of the pond. He just hoped that The Wankers Council hadn't called their resident berk on the ground back to the Homeland as soon as they found out his little girl was dead. God, not Sunnyhell again.

Nothing had tasted the same since he'd blown through that demon infested burg with Dru. He'd tried everyone; dark girls, white girls, rich, poor, homeless, drug addicts (and besides the roulette of what drug he'd ingest with them, malnourishment on top of blood poisoning was gross), sodding _men_. Not only did it all taste like that one time he'd tried pigs blood on a dare, he'd found that his new lack of appetite meant he wasn't even killing anymore. The rush was gone. It was too much like work. Sheer habit had him draining the first few meals he'd taken after leaving Sunnydale, but after that it just seemed too easy.

There was no challenge in slaughtering these cattle. Hell, he'd taken to wandering about at night, trawling demon bars and stirring up fights just for some entertainment. He'd play games with his food sometimes, looking out for specific types. There was a certain satisfaction in hunting those who thought themselves predators. Teaching them the errors of their ways, before draining them to the point of death. Leaving them to live or die on the kindness of others. Kindness. He'd seen _Fyarls_ with more kindness than your average city-dweller. Especially here in the 'Land of Opportunity'.

* _Wonder if Dalton stuck around the Hellmouth? Maybe I c'n offload some of the research onto him. Little berk had a nose for learnin'_ * Coming to a swift decision, he strode into his and Dru's room and started throwing the clothes and music tapes that lay everywhere into a duffel from the corner. Once he had his gear packed, he went over to the closet. Removing the trunk he'd found within when he'd liberated the place, Spike proceeded to fold and carefully pack Dru's frocks and fripperies. Hesitating only for a moment, he swept all the books they'd collected in the last fortnight into Dru's trunk before shutting it and packing it and the duffel into his DeSoto. He'd cleaned out a few nights ago at poker, so he had enough to ship his baby back to California, but it burned that he had to lay out so much cash for it. Problem was if he tried cheaper avenues he stood a good chance of losing the car and that was not an option. Only the best for his girls. Almost absently he dusted any minion he came across on his way back to Dru, but he was too proccupied to notice if he'd missed one. It was surprisingly easy to lure Dru out to the car, she was almost eager to get going.

* * *

I can see Daddy smiling. The sunshine tries to scorch him but he's leaping back into the shadows like a good boy. No sunshine for Daddy. I can see Her smiling like a snake. Slither closer on your belly, serpent. Sink your poison deeply, drown his spark. Such pretty lies to snare a Champion.

Dark knight shadows her heart, the bright queen-in-waiting prepares a feast, but who is coming to the party? A dance, a dance with pretty dresses and flowers and messes. Masks that shift, inside to outside and back again. It's cold in the dark, sometimes, but my puppy warms me whilst I have his poet's heart. Soon all the family will be together again and Miss Edith will have her tea and biscuits.


	8. Ch8: For The Woman He Loves

To Buffy's surprise and appreciation, so far it seemed life after death was pretty much more of the same. So long as you could ignore the appalling lack of anything even vaguely caffeinated. Or the lack of a good American doughnut. Glazed...jelly filled pastry… * _Can't keep thinking about that, I'm still here for another ten months. Stop it brain! Hmmm… wonder if I can convince the cook there is such a thing as a proper doughnut? Ugh. So not helping._ *

There were other, less appealing parts of this setup though. Like hyper-annoying, know-it-all redheads who set impossible tasks before bedtime and had the gall to call it 'homework'. Who on earth expects someone to read an entire novel before lights out, (this no electricity business was old within the first five minutes of being here) and be in any way capable of discussing it the next afternoon? Especially without the help of copious refills of a triple macchiato with extra cream, or a Willow-shaped study-buddy? Can't the PTB's Chosen One catch a break- or was that asking too much of fate?

Her nose perked up, and her sleepy brain actually growled as it flooded her mouth with saliva. Someone, somewhere close * _And why don't I think it's the cleaning lady?_ * had obviously gained access to a source of the sweetest smelling ambrosia known to her. Stride lengthening, the Slayer marched into the room, arms akimbo and head swivelling.

'Is that smell an indicator of me losing my mind and hallucinating or did this caffeine-forsaken Purgatory actually discover coffee?'

'I'm not sure. I don't have access to your perceptions and therefore cannot refute or guarantee the veracity of the sensory information your body is providing you.' Taliesin smirked to himself. It appeared his reluctant student was indeed bribable, given the right currency.

Buffy wrinkled the sensory organ in question, and continued to peer about the library's sitting area. 'Please stop. You make my brain hurt every time you open your mouth. I know, I know- I shouldn't ask rhetorical questions around Professor Snark because they push all the buttons of long-winded lecture time.'

' _I_ make _your_ brain hurt? That's a bit rich girl. The minute you walk in here I can feel my braincells fleeing me like rats from a sinking ship, and that's before you even say a word. However, I do believe I have finally hit upon a possible solution. Left you something at your torture station.'

As she wandered off he called out, 'Don't drink it too fast. It's still hot and I don't need you spraying priceless tomes because you burnt your tongue!'

'Not a child, Merlin!'

'Not Merlin, wench.'

'God if this is your idea of a joke I will slay you by _inches._ I don't even care if that makes me a bad person. If you've charmed a cup of hot water I will gladly go over to the dark side just so I can skin you alive.'

A few seconds later, a low, sensual moan was heard from the direction Buffy had left in.

'I can hear you, you know. Try not to wet the chair, other people have to sit there.'

'I'd reply to that but right now Buffy cells are reveling in Heaven. We've achieved completion and are at one with the Cosmic Logos.'

'You realise "completion" is just a euphemism for orgasm, don't you Buffy? I know it's good coffee but I think that's just a little too exhibitionist, don't you?'

'Please stop penetrating my happy endorphin haze, Badgerlock.'

Ever since she had discovered what that chunk of non-colour in his hairline was named, she took every opportunity to call him out on it. It was apparently a distinctive marker whatever form he was in; and that was another thing. Taliesin was a shapeshifter. Who happened to have started out as an ordinary human. _Over a thousand years ago._ Seems that being birthed a second time by a goddess was a great healthcare option.

'You aren't even listening to yourself, are you? If I knew coffee would induce this level of sexual gratification in a minor I'd not have risked a temporal incident by bringing you any.'

She ignored his last comment. It wasn't worth trying to get the last word in with a guy who had an endless supply of one-liners. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered what everyone was doing back home. She knew that she wouldn't have been gone more than a few days in their time but by her experience it had been two months now. Time had been flying and her schedule was full-on, with weapons and hand-to-hand in the morning, followed by supernatural history, martial arts and weapons theory, and finally her study time with Taliesin after the noon break. Her teachers were strict and quick to correct mistakes, but they were all much more engaging and willing to talk one-on-one when you didn't quite grasp the course material. While she still preferred to let her fists do the talking, the Slayer was coming to the realisation that school didn't have to be a drag, and books weren't her enemies.

It was a pretty wiggy thing to admit to herself, because the ex-cheerleader still suffered occasionally from the old attitude that books and learning were of the lame and nerdish. This despite admitting freely that Willow was a fairly awesome and totally sweet girl, without whom Math and much of her other classes would have remained an impenetrable morass of totally yawn-worthy concepts. When was she ever gonna have to use algebra, for one? And who really cared what frogs looked like inside, dissection was ick. It was bad enough when she had to decapitate a demon to kill it, guts were ooky things.

Startled by the wave of homesickness this thought created, she found herself angrily blinking her suddenly watery eyes. * _This is totally unfair. Where were the Powers when I was being slowly killed? What kind of agency makes a 'Chosen One' and conveniently forgets to keep an eye on them to make sure they aren't dead before they get started?_ * The last thought bothered her especially. If she was important enough to be saved from going wherever dead people went, and placed in a re-education facility such as this apparently was, why couldn't they have avoided this mess altogether by giving her some kinda boost, or warning? Come to think of it, she'd been singularly slayer-dreamless the weeks preceding the big fight with her blond killer.

'Hey, Merlin? Why is this even a place? I mean, Ceri told me it was a training grounds for Champions, but there are a few here that're like me. We died, and woke up here. What's the deal with that anyway? I thought when a Slayer dies, a new one is called, no muss, no fuss and I'd be done. Do the Powers even keep an eye on their 'Chosen Ones' or is this the Hall of Oversight?'

'Look, what do you know about the PTB? I'll bet you were told something along the lines of "They are the white-hats in charge, the big Kahunas, and general all-knowing benevolent deities".'

She tilted her head, 'Yeah, kinda. Giles was always going on about the "Destiny of the Chosen One."' This last was surrounded by sarcastic air-quotes, as the Slayer clearly resented anything that smacked of a lack of independence.

'Well they aren't. Not all-knowing at any rate. Not omnipotent. They may be benevolent in the long term but they are not above using pawns to further their goals. If you look at them from a mortal perspective they are the anagogic equivalent to a large corporation. They employ a huge amount of people, and serve many more. But the wages are poor, and the health insurance sucks. Long hours and no severance package is guaranteed.'

Buffy's nose wrinkled in disgust. 'Sounds like a sucky deal to me.'

'It's worse if you're on the other side, frankly. It's the same sort of power, the same long-term goals, just twisted for evilness. And you don't get even half the care being a white-hat offers. It's why HR has such a huge redemption division. Now me, I work freelance. To further my analogy, I'm not directly employed by the PTB, I'm here in a consulting capacity given my particular talents. There's only one other fixed temporal anomaly that I know of, and he's got his own gig.'

'This is like Economics class isn't it? A duopoly setup with small independents trying to make a living on the sidelines of the competition? At least this way of explaining it is more interesting than Mrs Stibbons ever put it.'

'Don't talk to me about your quaint little colonial education system. It blatantly ignores over half of the important stuff going on in your world to focus the students on an insular and fanatically patriotic worldview, leaving aside the sheer blindness to anything that even hints at the supernatural. And I won't even start on your system of measurement. You claim to have wrested independence from the country that funded the initial colonies and yet still use imperial measurement. It's little wonder you were dying of boredom and unable to relate to half the material. You've come a long way since you arrived here Buffy, and it's not just because I'm a mean task-master.'

'I haven't ever been accused of being smart before. Blonde? Yes. I was pretty shallow before this whole Slayer gig was dropped on me. But Willow's always been the brains of my little group. I just like to hit things. Research and me have never been friends. It's nice that someone thinks I'm more than the Destined Muscle That Saves People.'

She turned back to her cooling cup, happily sipping at it while taking notes from a rather large bestiary dedicated to commonly found demons of the Americas.

'You aren't the only warrior-scholar there ever was either…' Taliesin muttered this more to himself than anyone else. He had hopes of his long term goals, and some of his gambles had to have paid off. It was harder to play black than white, and the bright won more often because of that, but if you had the skill it was not a setback either way. And he was nothing if not a master.

* * *

Spike'd dropped the DeSoto off with the cargo company some four days before he and Dru skipped town, using a fake ID he kept since he'd gotten the vehicle for just this sort of reason. Once he'd seen to his beloved car, he'd taken his princess and they'd shacked up at a nice hotel in the meantime, ordering room service and snacking on the staff who brought it. He'd managed to keep Dru from killing anyone at the hotel and forcing them to move, but only by taking her out every night. He counted down the days until they flew out with barely concealed impatience, and brought snacks to her in a lovely park he'd found near a university.

A few hours before they'd left Salvador for the 16 hour flight to LA, the blond vampire had stolen a hospital cooler, and several bags of human blood. Spiking it with some morphine he'd lifted at the same time, he made sure his princess was comfortable and drugged her to sleep through the jostling and disorientation she suffered whenever they flew. In the air, he alternated between stroking her hair and fidgeting. He lacked patience with sitting around doing nothing. Worst part about traveling, unless he was driving, was all the festering inaction.

Left him too much time to think, and for damn sure the Big Bad wasn't much for introspection. It smacked of _brooding._ And _brooding_ was not only Poofter territory, it was bloody boring. He quickly exhausted both the untainted blood and the only book he hadn't read before they took off, and now faced the remaining hours hoping he'd gotten the dosage just right, so that Drusilla would be waking as they taxied into LAX. He liked getting things just right. It so rarely happened that it was always a nice change. Sure, chaos had its perks, but he didn't like to take chances around his girl.

Spike was pleased and surprised at how well Dru seemed to be doing once she woke from her poppy-assisted torpor. Since they'd alighted from the bowels of the cargo plane on the freight side of LAX, she'd been fairly lucid- well, lucid for Dru anyway, still barmy as anything. She had been singing rather a lot though, which was fairly unlike her. His princess was rarely coherent enough to croon more than a few lines before wandering off into her frequent monologues about fairies and pixies and what-all. In recent times she hadn't even done that much, the closest she'd come to singing was when she hummed children's rhymes. Run and Catch, Ring Around the Rosy and London Bridge were her favourites.

Dru hadn't actually sung anything in its entirety for near on twenty years. Might have been longer. Was in the 60's any rate. Sodding folk singers. Had an alright rock cover, but it was a mite poncy to listen to in company. All bloody neon gods and silence when he'd never been one for quiet. Still though, hook of an opening line; " _Hello darkness my old friend/I've come to talk to you again"._ But ever since then his Plum would go on about gardens and flowers and her lack of a green thumb.

LA was a good place for demons. Unless they were painfully new, cabbies never even blinked if your reflection didn't show up in their rearview mirror because as long as you had cash, they didn't care. Sure they were more nervous, taxis always smelt heavily of fear-sweat; even so, for the most part they were 'live and let live', and that was just the human variety. If you were short of the dosh you flashed a bit of fang and it shut 'em up right quick. 'Course since the last time he'd been here the radio'd gone to pot, nothing short of aural torture being produced for the last decade. He'd be relieved to get his beloved girl back from the shipper, and if there was one scratch on his baby he'd… Well, a meal wasn't out of the question.

They arrived in Sunnydale a week later. His beloved car seemed to drift over of its own accord, plowing down the billboard welcoming them to the Hellmouth town. Bloody thing better not have scratched his Lady. He pulled to a stop, anchoring an unlit cigarette between his lips, as he laid his boots on soil he'd shaken off little more than three weeks ago- with no intention of ever returning. But that was the way of things usually, any plans he made tended to bollix up at the drop of a fang, and sod his efforts to avert disaster six ways to Sunday.

He wandered around the front of his vehicle, ostensibly to check the bumper for scratches- in reality, to stretch his legs and survey what he could see of the pissant little town they'd returned to. Dru was sleeping in the passenger seat, having become bored with her burning fishies or what-have-you about an hour back. She'd become even more pale and ephemeral as the weeks went past since his big night, and she still flatly refused to come anywhere near his blood, shying away or slapping him off when he offered a vein. He tried not to be too hurt, but it burnt every time. Used to be he'd go through three or four meals a night just to keep up with her appetites. Now she barely tolerated his touch, and she was fading to the point of needing him close by.

Spike was at his wits end, and fast running out of time to help his nocturnal saviour. Growling with impatience he returned to the car and put her in gear. Driving through the darkened streets, on the lookout for something appetising for his Sire, and desperately refusing to imagine the worst scenarios that repeatedly crowded his thoughts in the quiet. He cranked up the old radio and tried to lose himself in the beat of the loud station.

* * *

The trip across Britain had been made in relative silence, the two occupants of the train compartment lost in their own thoughts.

Giles was still stuck on research mode, a thousand and one possible outcomes to what they were planning flickering through his head. The woman beside him seemed to operate on autopilot for the most part, having mechanically fulfilled her supposed purpose for visiting the rainy country. As it grew dark, they retreated to their own corner of the small and noisy cabin and tried to sleep through the majority of the eight hour journey.

When they reached their final destination the tired Watcher gently shook his companion awake. She surfaced from her slumber with a tired yawn and stretched, before rubbing bleary, jet-lagged eyes and peering around.

'Where are we? What time is it?' Joyce was somewhat like her daughter, and took a little bit to wake to full consciousness. She stumbled like a sleepwalker behind Giles as he led her through the small crowd disembarking at the tiny station at Haverfordwest.

Collecting their luggage, they went to the locker number Giles had been given when he rang ahead at Heathrow Airport. Collecting the keys to the hire-car they'd been assigned by the company, they loaded the trunk and got in. Giles turned to Buffy's mother and spoke the first words beyond the strictly necessary between travel partners.

'How are you holding up my dear? Do you need anything before we head out? We're only a few minutes away from Morgan's' house, but if you need some time we can surely find a place for you to freshen up.'

'Oooh I could use a bathroom Giles. Travel always makes me feel so grimy. I could use a good wash up, and a date with a toothbrush. My mouth feels like a cat died in it.' Her shudder of distaste turned into a shiver. "A sweater would be appreciated, too.'

Giles grimaced with very British distaste. 'Charming analogy Joyce. And I did warn you to pack warmly, this is not California, and it's fairly mild for this time of year. I suppose I could use some private time with a bathroom mirror myself.'

Back in the train terminal they parted ways to their respective restrooms, agreeing to meet back at the car in a quarter of an hour. Giles finished swiftly, and made a quick call from the pay-phone to make sure the welsh Watcher was apprised of their imminent arrival, then he returned to the car to wait for his companion.

In the bathroom, Joyce quietly fumed as she splashed water on her face. Her baby was gone, and Giles had the nerve to lecture her about sweaters. Yes, she probably should have packed one, but how could he think that was important at a time like this? Besides… all of her sweaters were still packed away in the basement with Buffy's. She hadn't been able to bear….

She took a deep breath and fought for composure. They were going to fix things. Buffy would come back, and everything would be okay again. She nodded resolutely to her reflection and began to determinedly brush her hair, as if defeating the tangles would also defeat any obstacles in their path.

She finished up her grooming tasks and headed out of the ladies room, telling herself that she would be kind and gracious, and not give into the 'I'm an upset mama bear' urge to punch Giles in the nose over the least little thing.

When the Watcher looked up, Joyce was headed back towards him across the parking lot, no sweater in sight. It being too late for any of the sleepy little town's boutique-sized stores to be open, he perforce removed his own coat, offering it without quibble to the woman as she came up beside him. 'Feel a little more yourself?' he enquired politely, trying to inject some normality into the situation. God knows it couldn't be easy for the poor lady. To all intents and purposes, no matter what their end goal was, at this point in time Buffy was in actual fact dead.

Joyce looked at the coat for a moment, her expression neutral. Then she took it and put it on. 'Thank you. And yes, I do feel a bit more myself now. This situation isn't easy for either of us.'

'I daresay you are right, my dear.'

He couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency about the circumstances. Given his experience in the occult as a rather rebellious youth, he had some appreciation for the twistings of his gut instincts, and they told him time was of the essence. With that in mind he ushered Joyce into the small car, and after checking a complementary local map from the glove compartment, he exited the train station parking lot and headed out to the south.

In the predawn darkness he almost missed the turnoff onto the small laneway that would take them to Morgan's farm. The man ran a seasonal Pick Your Own produce setup as a cover for his Council activities. Arriving in the large yard he pulled up to the buildings behind the main homestead and turned to Joyce. She looked wilted. Dark circles bruised her eye-lids, and lines of strain deepened the creases that were just beginning to show at the corners of her mouth. She looked as though she'd aged overnight, going from vibrant middle-age to broken seniority. He sighed sympathetically. He wasn't the girls' blood relation by any means, but he'd felt a part of her life since she'd bounced into his library insisting she was quitting the 'Slayer gig' like it were some summer job she could discard when she returned to school.

'Let's go inside, I called Morgan while you were busy and let him know we were here. He's generously offered to put us up while we're staying in Wales and I saw no reason to refuse him. Accommodation here can get rather pricey if you aren't prepared and frankly neither of us have had much of a chance for any real preparation. I hope you don't mind that I made the decision without asking, I didn't think to question you before you left.'

Joyce's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Then she visibly composed herself. 'This is acceptable, but in the future, I want to be consulted. I am a modern American woman, Mr Giles, and I do not appreciate decisions being made on my behalf without my input. We're in this together.'

Giles winced. His brain was running on autopilot by this point. It had been a minor miracle that he'd remembered which side of the bloody road to drive on, and now he had to worry about offending a woman whom he knew was quite capable of wreaking untold havoc if slighted. Mumbling his apologies he hurriedly walked up to the door of the house. Before he could knock, it was opened.

The man in the doorway peered at them, his features thrown into relief by the overhead light. He backed away from the door and gestured them inside. When both managed to pass the threshold with no issue he grinned suddenly.

'Welcome, welcome! I've been waiting on you both,' his voice was gratingly cheerful to the two weary travelers, bright and chipper with a soft lilt. Giles turned gimlet eyes on him, attempting to stare a hole through his head. He'd been more subdued on the phone, but the Watcher had forgotten his friend's habit of being wakeful while the sun slept. Morgan had always been near as nocturnal as the vampires he studied.

The redhead bustled in front of them, directing them to a cheerily lit kitchen where a trio of mugs awaited the kettle that was just now coming to a boil. 'Tea?' Morgan enquired solicitously. 'Or I have some instant coffee I suppose. Either way we have a lot of work to do and not a lot of time for it.'

'Believe me, no one appreciates the need to get things going more than I do, but Mr Giles and I are exhausted.' There was a stubborn set to her mouth and shoulders, as if she didn't want to be the voice of reason but was going to do it anyway. She was a mother. It was what mothers did. 'As much as I hate to admit it, we'll be useless if we don't get some sleep.'

The younger man looked positively crestfallen, apologising as if it were a personal failure that their exhaustion kept them from springing at the chance to unravel this mystery. He instead directed them to the wing of the large house where the bedrooms were located, and placed them across the hall from one another. They barely had the presence of mind to shuck their travel-stained clothes and prepare for bed before the two succumbed to oblivion.


	9. Ch9: What Comes Of Learning

Joyce woke slowly, to the sound of two male voices murmuring and the smell of fried bacon and melted butter. Her yawn made her jaw creak, and she quickly made her way to the bathroom to scrub the sand from her eyes. After dressing in some casual day clothes she brushed her hair in front of the vanity, completing her morning ritual.

She sat and stared at her reflection for a full minute, taking in the faint crows-feet at the corners of her eyes, and the blank grief lining her face, making her appear years older than she felt herself to be. Grimacing at what she beheld, she made a pact with herself. * _Nobody but you sees this again. I will be_ positive _, because my baby needs me to be without doubt. I have not lost you yet Buffy, darling, I_ WILL _get you back. I refuse to believe otherwise.*_

Following her nose back to the large country-style kitchen, she met the two Watchers sitting at a long, low table, set with steaming platters of what she surmised was a traditional British breakfast.

There was a plate piled high with bacon, some rather dark rounds of a salami- at least she assumed that was what it was, and thick sausages. Another dish held about a dozen fried eggs, and there was a bowl of caramelised onions and mushrooms. It all looked enough to feed a small army, and that wasn't counting the pile of toast, the large teapot and a plunger she strongly hoped held a great deal of coffee.

'Ah, good morning Mrs Summers,' the red-headed man, * _Morgan?_ * greeted her arrival with a cheery grin. His eyes were a little red-rimmed, as though he hadn't slept that night, and he seemed a little tired. She recalled how energetic he'd been when she and Giles had arrived and it seemed to match his general demeanour this morning.

'Please, call me Joyce. Mrs Summers makes me sound like my ex mother-in-law.'

'Joyce it is then. Do sit down, I've just finished making breakfast, so it's all still hot. Help yourself to whatever you wish; the carafe does indeed have coffee. Giles mentioned your preference for it. There is cream in the jug beside it, and the sugar is that cream bowl with the spoon.'

Morgan smiled kindly at the woman. She was really quite the handsome one once she'd had some rest, and whatever was weighing down on her seemed to have been put aside for the moment. He winced suddenly, and straightened. Turning a critical eye on Giles he spoke with a slightly harder edge to his voice, 'So, now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way, can you tell me what happened that's triggered this business. Because I am telling you, as of two and a half weeks ago, neither _Telcham's Minutes_ nor my collection held anything at all about the _Brehines Gwen_ Foretelling. And yet, we now have a centuries-old prediction of world-ending proportions, and a Powers-sanctioned resurrection to plan for.'

Caught in the act of filling his plate, Giles looked non-plussed. He knew his friend acted oddly at times. Usually he was quite genial if scatter-brained, but sometimes he just seemed more _there_ , like a concentrated version of himself. Giles pulled off his glasses and polished them absently, speaking for the benefit of Joyce as he began, 'Well, l- I suppose it started around that time anyway. As you know, I was the active Watcher for Buffy Summers, the Californian Slayer. Until last year she was the only active Slayer in the world.' Here he paused for breath, sipped at his tea and nibbled on some toast. 'When she went up against the Master it fulfilled that one prediction in the _Pergamum Codex_ that spoke of her death. She was resuscitated by her friend and went on to defeat the Master and keep the Hellmouth closed. What we didn't realise at the time was that she was dead long enough for a new Slayer to be called, effectively splitting her from the direct line of Chosen Ones.'

'Ah-ha, so _that's_ why that line… I'm sorry, do go on.'

'Another Slayer? There's another Slayer?' Joyce cut in harshly. 'Were you planning on tell me about this? Or were you just going to ignore it and keep sending my little girl out to die after we get her back?'

Giles opened his mouth, stricken, but nothing came out. Morgan looked a little sheepish before replying, 'We'd actually only just talked about this before you came down for breakfast, Joyce. I swear, Giles knew nothing about it until now. He had suspicions, and that's why it came up, but honestly it's not common knowledge that she exists yet. As to sending your little girl out to die, being Chosen is in the blood. We could no more hold her back or retire her than stop the sun from rising in the East. It's a calling, not a job. What we do is try to prepare them for the duty. To help keep them alive for as long as possible. It doesn't always work, and some are more successful than others, but Slayers are ultimately a Force of Nature. A physical manifestation of Light and goodness.'

'The Slayer. Is. A teenage. Girl,' Joyce spat out through clenched teeth. 'All she has is one man watching her, but not even really watching her back. It's a tragically ridiculous system that leads to little girls dying.' Her face pinched further as she accepted the weight of her child's burden. 'Little girls, Morgan, not forces of nature.' She had to stop there for a moment to hold back tears. Her baby daughter, fighting all alone. 'These Slayers should have a support system. If someone had been watching Buffy's back, maybe the monster who killed her would be dead right now, instead of her.'

The redhead winced, but rallied. 'Would that we could support her as she needs, but you must understand, were it up to me or Giles, or any of us who've actively mentored a slayer, these girls would be full-grown before they ever saw combat. Unfortunately the Powers see fit to Call them young, and we must train them as best as we can. Keeping in mind that they are so much stronger and faster than their teachers.' Morgan's voice sharpened again, 'There is no way of keeping them safe until they have the requisite knowledge either, as their very presence acts like a magnet to draw the demons and predators like moths to a flame. There have been attempts in the past to aid them with teams of trained fighters, but because of the very nature of the Chosen One, and the supernatural origin of all they fight against, this has only led to disaster. The supported Slayer spends more time protecting her team than herself and ultimately every life lost in her care adds yet more to burden her soul. Those Slayers either burnt out quickly and broke, or died well before they might have.'

Morgan looked sorrowful, 'We do try to support them when we can with the aid of a coven, but unless that coven has an active seer, it's almost impossible to predict when the best time to step in is. And given the inevitable politicking of any significantly sized organisation, the Watcher is usually assigned by seniority, or proximity, and seniority often means they are past their physical prime. I hate to promulgate this rhetoric but the Slayer really does work best alone. The only other way to help would be with the aid of an equal partner, and thus far, there never has been one of those. Perhaps now that there is another Slayer, they might support one another and thus increase their survival odds.'

Joyce sighed, her entire body seemed to collapse in on itself, and her defiant mood deflated. She just wanted Buffy back, and for her to have a normal life without the possibility of dying again. Which wasn't realistic at all. Even if Buffy somehow came back without her power, there was no guarantee of her living a long, normal life. There were all sorts of dangers anywhere you went, she might have a fatal car accident, or fall from a ladder and break her neck. There was even the possibility she could get beaned in the head by a frozen turkey dropped from a supply plane and drop dead. That was just the way life worked.

In a subdued voice Giles spoke into the silence, 'What did you mean, this prophecy didn't exist two weeks ago? It's documented as being over six hundred years old. It was recorded in the 11th century by the ecclesiast Father Abram Johannes, and by all reliable accounts was uttered in full by the last known seer working under the aegis of Bran the Blessed.'

The welsh Watcher smirked at Giles, sarcasm coating his voice as he stated, 'Time is not linear, old boy, any Dr. Who fan could tell you that. What I am saying is that my memories of two weeks ago do not include this prophecy in any capacity. Just because the veracity of its age is not in question does not mean it isn't in fact a newborn anomaly within this dimension.'

'What on earth are you getting at Mr-?' Joyce was at a loss. She knew his first name, but her inner self rebelled at applying first names where she was not invited to do so.

'Please, call me Morgan, Joyce, my family name is Crewe, but only telemarketers call me that.'

The mother of the Slayer chuckled self-consciously as she gave in to the tacit demand. 'Now what do you mean by that, Morgan? I simply don't understand.'

'When you've lived with the paranormal all your life, it becomes fairly obvious that we exist in a multiverse rather than a singular, or universal, time-ordained river. What I have chosen, simply by telling you what I know, has branched us off from a place where I held this information close to my chest and deflected you with platitudes.'

Joyce's eyes narrowed at Morgan's slightly pompous tone. 'Why do I get the feeling you would have been perfectly happy to row a canoe down either of those little streams?'

'Probably because I have already, There is a Morgan Crewe who felt it better to keep this to himself rather than share with you, and a Joyce too traumatised by the loss of her only daughter to call him on it.' He smiled in a manner designed to deflect ire, and spoke honestly. 'If it helps at all, you only need concern yourself with what I've actually said here. If we were overly bothered with possible repercussions I don't think this dimension would survive its first major upheaval.'

'Oh, good. I'd hate to have to concern myself with the Joyce Summers who got annoyed at people over talking about superfluous things when her little girl is _dead_. That might lead to my new shoes being lodged somewhere uncomfortable, and we don't want to go there.'

Giles coughed into the awkward silence. He'd used the interim to finish his breakfast and now appeared to be stuck on the research that had brought him and the Slayers' mother to the UK in the first instance. 'Joyce, perhaps it would be better to focus on the positives of our situation.

I'm sure nobody could possibly supercede your desire to regain your daughter.'

Morgan suppressed a grin. These two were surprisingly malleable, given a solid goal. All it had taken was a little misdirection to alter their focus. * _Nearly time, old friend. We'll be ready on our end, now it's your turn._ *

* * *

'Twice-born, the Sorceress' son. He comes, he comes! Wandering the riverbank and dipping his hand to split the flow. This fishy doesn't swim, no. He works slyly against the current and stands beside himself. Silver bonds him to the magic and he speaks with gilded tongue. Ben Beirdd is he. The Pinnacle of Albion. All hail, all hail!' Dru spoke reverently, her hands sinuously painting abstract shapes in the air above her head, which was thrown back in ecstatic fervour.

Dalton looked on in a little awe. 'And she's always like this?' he questioned as an aside. His companion turned to him, bleached hair almost glowing in the shadows, and grinned. 'She's in a bleedin' trance mate. Goes sack of hammers and won't come down for ages. Need you to do somethin' for me though. Know a bloke around here has a dusty collection of old paper wot I'll need help with translating. Need a text to save a lady.'

'Is she ill then?' Dalton was a little worried by that thought, the blond vampire he was standing beside had a barely leashed feel about him when he spoke of his 'lady'. The balding, tweedy little minion just _knew_ that if anything happened to her, the young Master would see the world burn in retaliation. And he quite liked this corner of existence, thank you very much. It had everything he could ever want: a high school library with a huge selection of unprotected occult and demonic knowledge just waiting to be devoured, a hospital with the state's largest supply of donated blood, and no-one to care if the expired stuff was actually destroyed or merely vanished; a sewer network that Paris would be proud of and the blindest population of a Hellmouth town he'd ever seen. It was paradise, even for so pathetically non-violent a demon as Dalton knew himself to be.

Spike grimaced, his face blanking into something cold and inhuman. Eyes like glittering chips of ice, he spoke softly. 'We were in Prague. She wandered off in one of her fits. When I found her she was barely clingin' to her unlife. Mob'd chanced on her in the middle of a meal an started a round of Beat the Dru. Poisoned her with some crap to keep her down and were havin' some right nasty fun with it. Angelus'd be proud. They were lucky she needed help more than I needed revenge, coz what they did… Mate, there ain't enough centuries in eternity to make 'em suffer.'

The minion shivered. For a vampire, Spike had seemed surprisingly alive until just now. He looked like a marble statue of himself as he spoke almost dispassionately about what'd he'd have liked to do given the chance. Dalton found himself feeling strangely relieved that Spike hadn't been able to follow through on his musings.

Speaking up almost hesitantly, he interrupted the vicious monologue. 'I.. erm, that is to say… I may have a book that'll help. I was a bit of a cryptographer when I still had a pulse, and I sort of try to keep in practice when I can. Came across an interesting read down at the high-school if you'd believe, and if I can crack it, it may have what you need. The title's in proper Latin, _Ritualia Lamia Daemones_. There'd almost have to be some sort of healing spell in there.'

The Master-vampire's eyes pierced him with a gimlet stare. 'You'd wanna be sure about that mate. Right bloody sure of yourself, yeah? You fuck up some wonky hocus-pocus and hurt my Dru and I'll cut you. I'll take you apart slow so's I can finally get back to Angelus on exactly how much you need to remove to dust a vamp. Savvy?'

Sucking in an unnecessary breath the demon in the balding corpse nodded as he shrunk away from the malice he felt rolling off Spike in waves.

* * *

'I need you to focus properly. There are three non-human energies in this room. One is peaceable, one is neutral, and one is inimical to positive life-forces. Some would probably say evil, but it's only acting within its nature.'

Her voice was starting to fall on the whiney side of the scale again. 'Why can't I say evil then? If it's jonesing to kill the Chosen One isn't that pretty near the top of the list of Deeds That Make You Evil?'

'Well aren't you just the cutest little Council yes-man.' Taliesin practically sneered his challenge at her stubborn vacuity. He'd been working on these narrow-minded impulses of hers for four months now and had thought he'd made decent progress. Yet every so often she seemed to retreat into this comfortable black and white view of life, and it galled him.

The problem was that she was still so very young, and clinging to her childish notions was a comfortable stance for her when life got confusing. Unfortunately, this way she had of packing everything into neat little boxes- _Good, Evil, Human, Demon, Person, Not-person_. It was going to get her killed again, and soon. She'd already encountered some of the benign non-humans that made up her fellow students, and there were one or two of the teachers who weren't entirely human either. It had shaken her Council-approved notions of good and evil quite nicely. Now he was trying to break down the rest of the narrow-minded indoctrination that was stifling her natural discernment.

If he succeeded, she'd not only be a lot closer to the original Slayers in terms of perception and attitude to the non-humans, it'd also be a lot easier to continue working with her when it came time for him to join her support network in California. He only had a little under eight months left of strenuous, uninterrupted access to her brain in order redirect her misguided prejudices. After that he would have to work through the bias of others and hopefully re-educate at least two of the people closest to her.

Buffy blushed in shame. She'd been doing that a lot lately. Every time she dug her heels in and tried to ignore all the exceptions to the rules she'd been taught ever since she was Called, her annoying mentor-guy would immediately pick up on it and make her feel like she was a six-year-old whining about not having ice cream. And the more she did it, the nastier he got about it. Not having her two best friends around to support her made it even harder to ignore how child-like these claims really were. 'Ok, so how is it inimi-whatsit to "positive life"?'

Her teacher sighed. 'Inimical to positive life. Things that breathe, have a heartbeat or some form of circulation, have a living aura, reproduce living babies. Negative life is… Well the easiest way to describe is using a vampire as the subject. Animate, sentient, technically "alive" but lacking respiratory function or pulse. They reproduce asexually, giving rise to fully adult versions of their species by reducing a "live" host to its "dead" state, and introducing the impetus within the "corpse" by which it then operates indefinitely. Unless it meets with something fatal to it.'

'That'd be me.'

'Also any type of wood, fire, the sunlight of most dimensions and any object that's been charged with the positive life energy of extra-planar beings. You'd call them "Gods".'

'Wow, they really don't have a lot going for their whole immortal schtick, do they?' Buffy smirked a little. She hadn't stopped to think just how easy it was to dust vampires, but just about anything would do it; even a match could kill one if you managed to set them ablaze before they saw you. They went up like they'd been soaked in gasoline too.

'So, how exactly did you come here? Remind me again? Just because they have a plethora of weaknesses doesn't mean they are beneath your notice, or respect. In fact, most Slayers fall to a vampire in the final accounting. Maybe not so much in recent years, because the Council has essentially re-educated you girls to all-purpose removal of the non-human element on your world. But over-all.'

Buffy deflated a little. There _was_ that. The tiny, little detail of how she'd come here in the first place. 'But… He was actually a really good fighter! Almost as strong as me, and super-skilled too. He took out at least two Slayers before me.' Rubbing her wrist in memory, she muttered, 'Knew nearly everything about me too. Like he'd _studied_ for it.'

'He probably did. Was he a notorious vampire then?'

'Yeah, Giles' books said his name was something like William the Bloody. After he killed Nikki Wood he became the Slayer of Slayers. It was weird, the books say he usually goes after us when we're older. There were a few other fights recorded of him and Slayers, but they weren't to the death I guess.'

'They're always to the death. Vampires have a habit of consuming what impassions them, and if this one is going after the Slayer line like this I'd say there is something that draws him to it. Not all of their appetite is strictly for blood. I suspect it's your Calling that pulls him in more than anything and I'm willing to bet he's fought at least one of those girls without draining her afterwards.'

Unsure of how much he actually knew, she stayed quiet. Taliesin had an annoying habit of making statements and asking leading questions, withholding information he already knew as a way to test her. She _had_ read a little about this Slayer of Slayers after Giles had found the entries in the Watcher Diaries. It had been noted that his second confirmed Slayer died from a broken neck, no fang-marks in sight. Buffy didn't know what to think of it. On the one hand, she'd been taught that vamps were all grr! about the blood, and most seemed to act like it was the only reason for their existence, which, ew. On the other… on the other was a seriously wiggy thought she didn't want to explore. It seemed like Taliesin was suggesting that vampires were capable of at least some kind of emotion. Or, dare she consider, even… honour? But, if that was true, wouldn't that mean Angel - soulful honest Angel - had been, well... lying?

* * *

Great. This was just… fantastic. He'd checked his sources, crossed his references, and barring some really unreliable theories, everything confirmed the same thing. He was fucked. Completely, totally, unequivocally _screwed_.

The man in question removed his crumpled hat and ran his hands through his sweaty hair. He didn't need to excrete waste products through his skin or otherwise, but it was a holdover reflex from his mortal days. Especially when he was stressed this badly. Whistlers' jaw clenched, and his weary eyes screwed shut in a quiet moment of despair, which was all he allowed himself before replacing his hat and shutting the book. * _Not if I can help it, toots. I'm nobody's pushover._ * Straightening his coat, he quietly left the library, almost bumping into someone striding in the opposite direction. He flinched back and hunched his shoulders as he walked out, turning into a nearby alley before disappearing entirely.

The man he'd nearly mowed down paused around the corner from the entrance, and smirked. That had been… interesting. Continuing on he wandered over to the prophecy section. He grabbed a slim volume and then, stopping here and there as he passed back through the room (which was of an oddly indeterminate size, shrinking in some areas to a few shelves, yet stretching off into the misty distance when he turned around) filling his arms with various tomes. Just before he was ready to leave, however, he saw something that made him drop everything, books scattering and scrolls unrolling every which way. * _Oh… That can't be good. Not good at all._ *


	10. Ch10: Waking The Fallen

Spike could feel his temper- never long at the best of times- fraying with each dead-end he faced. He could feel time running through his hands like fine sand, and clutching at straws seemed to do nothing but emphasise the futility of it. Close to snapping he stalked over to the mousy little cryptographer who was supposed to be translating the ritual book.

'Read it again. You're missing something.' The control in his voice belied the barely leashed violence in his movements, and Dalton swallowed as he grew more nervous. He could see the other vampire was at the end of his tether. 'We've gone over this Spike, it's not a language I recognise, and it's nothing like your Oxford Latin.'

'Does it look like I give a sodding damn? You said you were good at this rubbish, but I haven't seen it yet!'

'Well. If I try for the stuff that _looks_ like Latin… maybe? Uh. _Deprimere... ille... bubula... linter_?'

'Debase, the beef, canoe.' The tic in the simmering blond's clenched jaw grew pronounced, and Dalton grinned apologetically. Using the thick Latin-English dictionary he was carrying, Spike clipped the tweedy vampire over the head. 'Why does that strike me as not right? There has to be a way to make this gibberish speak.' This last was said as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair, clutching and pulling at the ends like it would yank the text into some kind of sense.

'Spike, won't you come and sing for Princess? My poet is losing his way among the stars when he needs to find the cold and quiet.'

In irritation he rounded on her. 'I'm trying to work this out Dru, why can't you play with your sodding dollies? I'm busy.'

Her face crumpled as she sank to the floor, whining painfully in her throat. 'Miss Edith sent me out to find you. The Tower is crumbling and the cakes have fallen by the wayside. I shall never eat cake again.'

His heart twisted. Instantly remorseful he walked over to her, 'Oh I'm sorry kitten. We're trying to find a way to make you all better. Big Brain here talked up a good pitch, but we can't make heads or tails of this bloody nonsense.'

Drusilla peered up at him through her hair. With doleful eyes she sighed, 'You'll make it alright. The pixies were chattering with the dollies all the night long. Dreadful gossips, they are.'

She rose slowly to her feet, and drifted off to the other table in the room. Piled haphazardly over it was a faded deck of tarot cards that he'd found tucked away in a corner of the warehouse. She gathered them up and shuffled them, stopping now and then to peer at a particular card. As she wasn't particularly careful, she dropped a few to fall fluttering to the benchtop. Among the cards that fell, three landed face up. A young girl stroking a lion, a lightning-struck tower, and a woman in religious vestments. Nobody noticed.

Spike turned back to the other male in the room, and the frustration that was missing in his interaction with Dru returned full-force. Striding back to the table that was covered in research and notes, he threw his arms out and demanded, 'Well? Come on then, enlighten me.'

The somewhat timid researcher spoke with a slight edge to his voice, clearly reaching a point where even he was upset, 'If it weren't for the fact that I've seen reliable references to the veracity of this document I'd say this trash was utterly without sense to be had. It looks nothing like any Latin I've seen if you do more than skim it, and I don't have the first clue as to what would make it give up the secrets it holds. If I had to make an educated guess I would say it seems to be code of some sort, but without a key it'd take months, perhaps years, to crack it.'

'You have two hours. Then we'll see how much better you work with bribery.'

'Uh, bribery?' Behind the glasses he wore, Dalton's eyes widened at the undercurrents in Spike's voice.

'Yeah. If you want to continue enjoying unlife you'll figure this out quick-like.' With a nasty grin, he looked set to provide an example when Drusilla spoke faintly. 'Don't…'

'What's that, ducks? Even pathetic little nobodies like our good professor here find pain to be an excellent motivator.'

'He has already helped you my poet. He speaks of the key. It lies hidden, sleeping with the worms. Oh but it burns! Bright and sharp and buried. We must invite a devil to my party, before the Sunshine burns you quite to ashes. Can we have a party? Just you, and me? Devils make the best presents, but we mustn't wait for my birthday.'

'We will throw a party just for you, my pet. All the demons you want.'

Drusilla frowned. Oh why wouldn't the fishies burning 'round his head stop swimming for a moment and let him _hear_ her? She had such important things to tell him, he needed to know that the Sunshine was rising again and brought the silver-wise salmon to tread the hellmouth's edge with her. Lions came tamely when the shiny-hatted lady showed the way, but the poet had his ears closed no matter how she told him.

Clapping excitedly, she was distracted when his rough tenor filled the air around her. As he sang, about fairs and weddings and a pretty lady, she danced for him.

He loved the way she moved. His dark princess had such grace to her, it was like watching lines of poetry take to the floor, and he didn't even mind that the song he sang for her he'd learned to spare his ears from Angelus butchering it. Folk music just wasn't his scene. Pastoral references gave him hives. He needed the bustle and pressing humanity of a decent-sized burg.

Bugger this. What he needed was a bloody challenge. Needed something to throw fists and fangs at and just whale on for a while. Cor, what he wouldn't give to have that Slayer to fight again. He should have strung the bint along a bit more, kept her around for when he needed a distraction. Pity that.

* * *

The overarching impression she'd use to describe her situation was _burning._ It felt like acid crawling through her veins, and her voice was frozen in her throat. Nobody had bothered to mention that interdimensional travelling was so agonising. Why _anyone_ would choose to do so voluntarily was beyond her. It felt like forever had passed with no easing of the pain and Buffy realised that something was different. She had no need to breathe- which was helpful, because there seemed no way she'd be able to concentrate on such a mundane task with each new sensation overwhelming her senses.

She watched from a location that seemed just slightly removed from her body as it/she sped toward a portal-shaped light of blue-silver. The tether anchoring her awareness to the physical shell that had housed it stretched, and almost disappeared as the body disintegrated into the brightness. Terror washed over her as she started to fight the inexorable pull. Suddenly convinced that what lay beyond the portal was not of the good, the Slayer tried to dig her heels in- without much luck, given her incorporeal state. Approaching the light, it slowly bled a deep crimson colour, like fresh blood tainted the purity of the silvery-white. As it turned out, the attraction that dragged her forward only got stronger the closer she came, and an icy sensation flooded through her as her consciousness was washed with the cold light.

The pain started again. It was like dissolving in reverse. The vitriolic burn swept from her insides to her skin as her shell reformed on this side of the gate. The cool breeze was like salt in an open wound as it brushed her newly sensitive surfaces.

The first thing she did with her new lungs was scream. She screamed until her ribs would compress no further, and she had to drag a wheezing, throat-drying amount of air back into her chest to alleviate the pressure. Being born _hurt_.

* * *

'Daughter-mine, be careful where you set your toes. Second chances don't come twice. What was given mustn't be squandered or taken away again.' Body twitching, the mad dancer moves like a marionette with half the strings severed. Swaying in a tangled two-step, her all but graceless movements echo in parody a far more eloquent scene.

Spike watched with hooded eyes as Dru re-enacted with perfect accuracy a clumsy rendition of his last fight. He grimaced at the mockery- and satire it was, for she was all that was flowing and had never moved so like a creature newborn. Losing patience with her nonsensical mutterings and callous disregard of his presence, he stomped from the room and left the building altogether.

The woman left behind snickered in approval, her body righting itself as she pirouetted with languid ease. 'All is well my dear. No Moonlight could stand where stricken by day, and the Sunshine comes to burn me away. Stay my poet's hand to keep regard of Light and he may weep. For me, I go to seek my pleasures where I may. Keep well his heart and you'll never want for love, my brilliant counter-part.'

* * *

The fire was lit. Something nasty and reeking of pungent herbs was bubbling gently on a rock beside it. Giles checked the rest of the equipment and shuddered in memory as he withdrew the small silver blade from his pocket. The last time he could bring himself to look at it, the bloody thing had been stuck through the hands of his poor dead slayer.

He looked to his companions, and his face stiffened lines of determination. It was nearly time. Joyce was shivering in the cool evening, but the short sleeves would be convenient when the ritual began. Morgan was poring over the notes they'd taken in last minute preparation. He looked up and smiled at the tired Watcher, before turning to the woman beside him.

'Ready to get your girl back?'

Joyce glared at his flippant tone. 'I'm glad _someone_ is confident this is the right thing to do. Are you absolutely certain that allowing Giles to stand in isn't going to mess something up?'

'The prophecy as much as demands it be him. _Though he be not blood, the kinship clear._ We established this earlier. Besides, were you able to get ahold of your erstwhile husband?'

'Well,' here she made a face of disgust. 'I'm not sure he'd even show his face even if one of us were truly dead. He seemed pretty adamant that he was starting a new life without us. It was a _magnanimous_ concession on his part to see his own daughter once a year on her birthday.'

'Ah. My apologies for bringing up distasteful memories.'

'Disappointing, more than distasteful, though that too, I suppose. I thought that he'd care more for Buffy , at least. But he signed her away, sent a monthly check in the mail. Hank doesn't even have the damned courage to call unless it's Christmas and he's drunk. Too busy with his man-stealing whore.'

The bitterness of the last statement surprised Joyce almost as much as it disconcerted Morgan. She blushed and mumbled in mortification, 'I didn't just say that. It's my nerves talking. I shouldn't say such things,' she said, then added- almost defiantly, 'Even if they _are_ true.'

# # # # #

 _'I need you to focus, clear your mind. You need to call your daughter home.' The fitful wind strengthens, as if to drown out his voice, yet it pierces the gloom and inserts itself in her ear without regard to the distance they stand separated by._

 _Her soul seems to reach toward the flame-wreathed void before her, refusing the loss of her child. She feels a pull from the centre of her chest, like a rope has anchored itself in her heart and now latches to a weight at the other end. Stumbling toward the impossibly tall fire she is steadied by the hand of the Watcher beside her._

# # # # #

 _'Hold fast, the worst is nearly over. Seal the bond. Do you stand in for her before the Powers?'_

 _His wrists flow cleanly, the crimson lines reaching both inner-elbows, the blood pouring unnaturally fast from the symbolic wounding. He staggers at the loss, before his resolve stiffens his knees. The sacrifice never touches the ground, sucked into the growing vortex, tinting the silver brightness a deep red. He falls to one knee as dizziness overwhelms him, and the light flashes brighter still. In a blinding instant everything disappears._

# # # # #

He woke to the scream. It was torn from the throat of the young woman slumped in the cold ashes of the now-dead fire. * _How long have I been unconscious?_ * The fire spoke of hours, the sky of mere minutes. In the grey pre-dawn chill Joyce strode forward jerkily, as if pulled to the girl. He looked away from her pale, bare limbs, a vague sense of unease at the realisation * _Dear God-_ * that she was without a stitch of clothing. Her mother covered her with the pale robes that Morgan had provided, the un-dyed cotton settling over her skin to shield her from the now-quiet breeze.

Buffy tried not to scream again as the fabric abraded her overly sensitive skin. She drank in the scent and warmth of her mother as the woman knelt unheedingly in the ashes beside her, sobbing with joy into Buffy's hair.

Peering around, Buffy took in the sight of her Watcher, uncomfortable as always at the display of strong emotion before him- how British! Looking past him she started at the sight of the man who'd gotten her mother and Giles to Oxford and hosted their stay in Wales. The way he stood was familiar, the set of his shoulders as if he were about to burst into song, or recite old poetry. Without a direct source of light, the grey-scale of her surroundings prevented her from seeing what colour his hair was. The man's face was shadowed by a prominent brow line, leaving his eyes to gleam eerily beneath it. It couldn't be. It didn't make any sense. But it sure seemed like...

'T-Taliesin?' she whispered.


	11. Ch11: Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

_West of the moon, east of the sun, in the time-between-times..._

- _WELL, DO YOU SEE IT YET?-_

 _-CLEARLY. PITY, THAT. I DID SO LIKE THE VISIONS IDEA.-_ The projection was petulant, as if the being who'd made it was the one who forwarded the idea initially.

A companion to the petulant one gave the telepathic equivalent of a derisive snort _-I'D LIKE IT BETTER IF IT ACTUALLY WORKED. HE'S TOO PHYSICAL THOUGH. HIS SIRE, ON THE OTHER HAND…-_

 _-DRUSILLA HAS BEEN VERY USEFUL. SHALL WE GIVE HER WHAT HER HEART DESIRES?-_ Aeons weighted this shared idea with gelid majesty, and it was accorded the respect due an elder.

 _-NOT YET. THERE IS STILL A LITTLE TIME, AND WE NEED HER WHERE SHE IS FOR NOW.-_ This voice, although younger by far, held authority, and clearly was in charge.

 _-ARE WE AGREED THEN? THE BLOODY ONE IS TO BE LEFT TO HIS OWN PATH? HE IS TOO CONTRARY TO GIVE MUCH CREDENCE TO 'PROPHECY' AND 'DESTINY'. MORE LIKELY THAT HE'D DO EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE JUST TO SPITE THE VERY IDEA.-_

 _-INDEED. LET HIM BE.-_ was the collective decision.

* * *

Dalton nearly knocked his chair over in his haste to make the announcement. 'Spike! I've got it! Come here and take a look… It's pretty simple too. I can't believe I didn't even think of this. Do you know how powerful the Sire bond is?' He was nearly quivering in suppressed excitement as he frantically waved the older vampire over.

Spike rolled his eyes a little. This Dalton character was a bit like a puppy; any minute now he'd be piddling on the rug or something. 'Mate, what are you wittering on about?' He wandered over anyway; if nothing else he'd be closer when he had to smack the other guy for wasting his time again. He started reading his notes, letting the tweedy researcher's voice fade into the background.

'Your Sire's cure. All we need is-'

Spike saw red. Actual, would-be-throbbing-if-he-had-a-heartbeat _red_ 'Oh BUGGER THIS! It always comes back to him! Fucking wanker!' Kicking at a chair did nothing to calm him down. 'Gods what I wouldn't give to just be able to _kill_ the poncy prick.' His words distorted around a mouth suddenly full of sharp teeth. He hadn't lost control like this since he was a fledge.

'Well this ritual apparently doesn't make any concessions for the survival of the Sire, though I would assume if it was being used that it would usually be the Sire themselves who was doing it in the first place and that they'd have some safety net in place.' By now Dalton had learnt (mostly) to stop flinching whenever Spike got annoyed. He was apparently valuable enough that he was not on the "dustable" list. Yet.

Taking a few deep breaths, Spike forced himself to calm down. 'I'm paralysed with apathy at the thought of losing dear Grand-da. Don't care if he dusts so long as Dru gets better before he does.'

The vampire researcher smiled. This would be even easier. 'Well in that case, the preparation is simple. We need a desecrated temple, or any previously holy site, we need the dagger that is apparently hidden within this code key, and a censer with the herbs written in the margin here. Oh and Drusilla's Sire, of course. You wouldn't, ah, happen to know where her Sire would be?'

'Buggered if I know, 'm not his bloody keeper, thank god. I know someone who might have a clue though.'

* * *

'You say William the Bloody is in town? Well isn't that just dandy. I love it! Give him a drink on me.' The man behind the massive desk was best described as cheerful. A grin appeared to be permanently etched across his features. His eye twinkled with mirth, suggesting an inside joke that nobody around him seemed privy to.

The man before the desk was shuffling nervously, clearly eager to be anywhere that wasn't where he was now. 'Uh… sure boss.'

'Any progress on the other thing we talked about? My "special" little project?'This was a gentle inquiry, his superior taking on a paternal sort of authority as he asked.

'We've located them both. The statue and the Scion of Arcaeus.' His eyes darted to the side, some primitive survival instinct within the flunkey was clearly on full alert. The tension in the room only now revealed itself in its absence, as with a chuckle the mayor replied, 'Good, good! Remind me to give you a raise next month.'

His face brightened as he relaxed. 'Thank you, Mister Mayor, sir!'

'Don't mention it. Oh, by the way, Jake? John?-' Here the mayor snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name of his minion.

'James, sir.'

'Jimmy! Jimmy, have my guest sent in directly, would you?' Richard smiled again as he directed his subordinate out of the room.

James grimaced as he left. Mayor Wilkins had a habit of applying nicknames regardless of either their suitability or whether they were wanted or not. The last time he was called Jimmy he'd busted the guy's teeth in, but you couldn't do that to your boss. As he walked past the lobby he caught the attention of the tall, dark-haired man pacing beside the coffee table. He indicated that he should show himself into the office and left to alert payroll to his new salary bonus.

The first thing Angel said as he arrived in the mayor's office was; 'Why was I brought here?'

Mayor Wilkins smiled cheerily as he replied, 'So hard to find good help these days. It occurs to me that working together could be mutually beneficial for us.'

'You have nothing I want.'

Richard got up from his chair and wandered around to the sideboard, pouring a glass of amber-coloured liquor. After offering a glass to his guest, and being refused, he continued, 'Nothing? Your childe and her paramour are in town, and I hear Spike is looking to cure her. I could find out more quite easily if I thought you wanted the information. All I ask is a little _quid pro quo_. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.'

Angel appeared unsurprised, and asked disinterestedly, 'What did you have in mind? And why does what Spike wants have anything to do with me? It's not like there's a Slayer in town right now…' He stopped there, aware he'd let something important slip, and to perhaps the wrong ears.

If possible, the mayor brightened even further. 'Interesting… Yes, I seem to have heard a little something extra. There is apparently a ritual involved in Drusilla's cure, something about Sire's blood… hmm. Probably nothing to concern yourself with is it?' At the last, he flicked his eyes to the other man, gauging his reaction to the little lure he left dangling.

The vampire started slightly, then resumed his poker-face. Too late, as the mayor had seen the barb sink home. Angel ventured further into the other man's lair looking around as if curious. 'And why are you telling me this? What's in it for you?'

'Oh nothing really. Call it a favour. The ritual he's unearthed isn't terribly focussed on your survival, being rather open-ended.'

'I see. And I suppose in a week or two you'll drop some kind of hint that there's something you'd like me to do in turn?'

Richard sipped at his drink. 'Not at all,' he insisted with a disarming grin. 'I rather thought it'd be a nice little show of favour, a gesture of goodwill, if you like. If you did happen to show your gratitude at a later date well, that would be entirely up to you now, wouldn't it?'

'I'm sure.' The vampire spoke dismissively. 'If that's everything? I have places to be.'

'Oh don't mind me, Mr. Angel. I'm sure we'll be seeing one another again sometime.'

Angel smirked as he left the office. He wasn't a betting man, but dollars to doughnuts this guy'd be dropping hints about what form his 'gratitude' could take inside of a month. He'd seen this type before. Still, the information, if true, was welcome. He'd be better able to watch his back now.

The vampire wondered if he'd be able to simply run his annoying grandchilde out of town, but quickly dismissed the thought. Part of why he was so annoying was that damnable persistence of his. Angel couldn't be certain that whatever he did Spike wouldn't just go to ground for a while and pop back up at a more inconvenient time. Maybe if he went willingly and offered to fix Drusilla he could get them to leave before his Buffy got back from wherever she'd been. Whistler had been really vague when he'd said she was out of town.

It'd been a little over a month now. He supposed he'd have to step up and actually patrol a bit before she got back. Wouldn't do to have her come home to a town over-run with fledges and start asking questions about what he'd been doing while she was gone.


	12. Ch12: Spark Ignited

Looking around her room, Buffy was struck by how... small it was. The slanted ceiling made it seem even smaller, but it looked like the room of a child, which, in hindsight, she realised she had been. Still was, if she was being honest, but the posters and stuffed toys and knick-knacks just didn't feel right anymore. Over the next few days she made a project of removing the old posters (which weren't that old, she'd just changed so much) and boxing up most of the stuffed toys. She kept Mr. Gordo, and a few other favourites, but most of the rest went into the basement in cardboard boxes. The bedspreads were next, and Joyce helped her pick out some more adult styles. The makeup and jewellry clutter, as well as the photos on the mirrors stayed, and her wardrobe didn't change, much. But the room felt more mature, in keeping with her new outlook.

Her reunion with Xander and Willow had been a pile of teenage exuberance and excitement. She'd had questions rained on her about the extra training her mother and Watcher had covered her absence with. Willow was interested in what she'd learned, and Xander had wanted to know what England was like. She'd deflected most of the questions with vague answers, trying not to give too much away about where she'd really been and how long it was. She wasn't ready yet to have that conversation with her friends, and since they hadn't known why she was gone, she was content to let them keep their innocence for now. She headed home as soon as she was able, citing homework she needed to catch up on.

Buffy had had the same feeling looking at her friends as she'd had when she saw her room after her year-long absence. They seemed somehow smaller, or younger, and she had a guilty pang that they no longer meshed so solidly as they once had. She hadn't actually thought about how her relationships would be affected by her absence, especially since they wouldn't have had as much time as she had to grow and learn. The things they were interested in and the worries they held close felt somehow petty and childish, making Buffy feel now that maybe she was being a bad friend for thinking that. But now that she'd had a chance to see how her life had changed, she could figure out as she went how to fit back into the rhythm of the hellmouth town she called home.

It felt like a fresh start, and honestly, as much fun as she'd had this last year, learning all she had, this was _home_. There was no comparison, nowhere else she'd rather be. Sure it was on top of a Hellmouth, and there was an apocalypse almost every Tuesday. But her friends lived here, and her mom was becoming a happier person away from LA, so really she couldn't complain. * _Hmm.*_ she thought. _*Something's still not quite right in here… ooh, I know!_ *

Almost tumbling down the stairs in her haste, Buffy galloped into the kitchen. 'Mom! Mom!'

Joyce started and dropped the pot she held back on the stove, 'Honey? What's wrong? What's going on?'

Her daughter paused in the doorway, and thought for a minute, 'Oh… um… nothing, really. But you know you said I could have that wall-rug thing you got from your aunt last Christmas?'

'It's a tapestry dear, and I thought you weren't interested?' Joyce picked up the pot again, glad nothing had spilt, and made her way to the sink to drain the spaghetti she'd been cooking.

'Yeah, one of those, but I just realised, after all the work we did on my room, it's missing something on the wall. I figured I could take another look at it maybe?' Her voice was hopeful.

Joyce smiled indulgently. 'Well of course, but why did you come rampaging through the house like a bull in a china shop just to ask me for a wall hanging?'

Toeing the linoleum sheepishly, Buffy blushed a little. 'I… think maybe I got excited. It's so good to be home, you know? I missed you this past year I've been gone.'

'Buffy… dear you were only gone for a month.' Joyce was confused. She'd been grief-stricken to find her daughter dead at her Watcher's home, but she knew how long it had been since then.

'Oh yeah. Taliesin and Ceri said it wouldn't be as long on this side. I was a whole year at Ynys Sci with them training, but Ceri said it'd only be like a month here.'

Joyce swallowed hard, starting to shake a little as everything really sunk in now that her baby was safely back home. A year. She'd known that, had heard it mentioned that more time had passed on the other side, but she hadn't a chance to process it before. Buffy had been away from her friends and family for a year. She must have been so lonely and confused. She reached out and pulled her daughter into a hug.

'Oh god, Buffy. I can't believe all you've been through.'

Her daughter smiled. 'It's alright mom. Apart from missing you guys like, all the time, it was a pretty cool place. I learned a lot about my calling while I was there. I had the greatest teachers; seriously, why can't school be that interesting? I'd never flunk a class.'

Joyce couldn't help a slight chuckle at that. Buffy did often try to see the bright side of things. She'd been like that herself, once. 'I think it's more a case of it being relevant material for you. Do you often need trigonometry to beat a demon?'

Buffy grimaced. 'Well no, and you're probably right about that. History is much more interesting with the demony bits left in.'

'No, no. The Bubonic plague wasn't fleas you nit. Or not all of it. Most new diseases are demonic in origin. There's simply no way to control a population boom of humans any other way.'

'So, what, they resort to bio-weapons?'

'Sort of. See, mutations in a virus are to be expected. But 99 times out of 100 they end up less effective than the original strain. When it changes so drastically as to become a virulent plague, chances are magic had something to do with it.'

'That doesn't make much sense. I thought demons were all "Kill all humans- Arrrgh!"'

'Sure, the stupid ones. But like humans, there are geniuses in the outliers. Just so happened that the epidemic of Black Death in Europe was the direct result of a particularly clever scion of the _Parere Plaga_ genus.'

'Huh. The more ya know.'

Taliesin laughed condescendingly. Buffy never could tell how he'd react to anything she said. Sometimes an innocent aside would have him nodding approval. Others, an agonisingly structured and [she thought] well plotted statement would incur his scathing regard. If she could only figure him out, Buffy thought, she could avoid the embarrassment of disappointing him so often. Why his disapproval rankled was something that didn't bear thinking on, but she'd come to truly respect his opinion, much like she had with Giles back when she was alive.

Without much thought she snapped, 'It's easy for you, Merlin, you practically lived this stuff. I have to learn that everything I thought I knew was a lie. It's not like this is new information, or well, it is, but I have to make it fit with what was stuffed in my head before. I'm the Slayer dammit, I don't _do_ alternative filing arrangements. Point me at what I need to stake and I'll dust it! I'm action girl, not study woman.'

'Ah ah ah, princess. You are far more than you claim. You feel the satisfaction of learning new things and you are much more observant that you take credit for. Did you really think I could turn you into something you are not? You have the seeds of greatness within, you just need to feed them and let them take root.' Taliesin's eyes were kind at times, though not often. Right now, they were twinkling with a mix of sympathy, mischief and exasperation. 'You know, back when I was just myself I had a similar problem to you.' Smirking, he flapped a hand at her incredulous spluttering, 'Oh not that! Freya's tits you silly child, I've got the wrong plumbing. What on Gaia's green bosom is your Watcher teaching you?'

Buffy wondered at that moment, if it was possible to make the ground to open up and swallow her if she could only will it to happen hard enough. She knew this _of course_ , mere instants after she had made the wrong connection in her head. But he made everything so damn _cryptic_ all the time that she twisted herself in knots trying to follow what he was teaching her. Her brain felt all stretched and floppy, like an old hair lackey, or the waistband on her favourite sleeping shorts that had finally given up any pretense of being elasticy.

Added to that she had the sneaking suspicion that he could read minds at least part of the time, and especially when he was angry or distracted. Mostly because several times over the last few months she'd caught him responding to things she'd never said out loud. It was really uncomfortable to think that he'd seen what she'd thought of him, especially in the early days, because her mother had raised her to be polite. Not that she always _was_ , just that she was uncomfortable with the idea that he knew just how bad she could be.

'Look, Buffy. When it comes right down to it, you are capable of anything you set your mind to. Not every Slayer has the ability to process and learn from the things you take as given. The only other Slayer brought back from the brink of death went utterly mad and was put down by a branch of the Inquisition that handled actual supernatural phenomena. You are a remarkably resilient creature.'

Buffy winced a little, 'That's me alright. Nuclear holocaust or successful apocalypse, the only survivors are me and the cockroaches.'

He snorted. 'We can but hope. The nice thing about the demon essence is that over time it refines its search. There have been Slayers for thousands of years, and the subtle differences in each have changed with the needs of their environment. The First was savage and cunning, as the demons she hunted were closer to the Pure Ones that had only recently been locked away. The American slayers have tended to blend in with the general population and use misdirection and the general assumption that small and petite is weak and easily killed. Nikki Woods was a little different to that however, but that's because the demons in New York were a different kettle of piranhas.'

She goggled at him, her mouth gaping like a hooked fish. It was quite amusing, really. 'What are you talking about, demon essence? Slayers have demon essence? No… no. We're of the good, we can't have demon ick!'

'Oh for the love of …! Do you mean to tell me that they've gone back to denying your origins again? How do you think you are so strong? What about that healing factor?' It was Taliesins' turn to go slack-jawed.

Buffy shrugged, in full denial mode and on more even footing with a question to focus on. 'I never asked, and Giles took one look at me and threw out the Slayer Handbook. I pretty much figured it was a Powers thing and stopped thinking about it. There were more interesting things to do, like killing vampires. You know, my job?'

Taliesin was aghast. This … tiny _gods_ this girl would be the absolute death of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed disgustedly. 'Ok, ok, I think I get it. What _exactly_ do you know about Slayers and the whole Chosen One business? You can't have been Council raised, you're too bloody ignorant of even the basics they indoctrinate you with. Frankly, that's a mixed blessing for me.' Sighing, he turned away and beckoned her to follow him. Travelling into the stacks of the library she started to get a good idea of the amount he had to teach in the time she was there. She half expected to see mist curling off in the distance, that's how large the place seemed. And books, as far as the eye could see, stuffing the shelves to capacity. Buffy began to appreciate the sheer scope of knowledge that the man she followed had access to, and she began to worry that she'd never measure up. Even her competitive nature quailed under the weight of her mammoth task.

* * *

'One wrong move and I'll bloody tear you to shreds. Only reason I'm doin' this is because of Dru. She still loves her Daddy, for all that you were right quick to abandon us as it suited you.' Spike was just _itching_ to lay into the Poof.

His grand-Sire sneered. 'Save it, you peroxided puppy. You couldn't take me on your best day.'

'Maybe not way back when, but I've been fightin' this last century. I'm not some green lad to knuckle under to the great foreheaded Angelus anymore.'

Angel sighed as he lit the herbs in the censer, sounding like the put-upon wanker he was. Souled up berk didn't know how good he had it. Even though she was a poor mad thing, he held all of Dru's attention. A century of one-sided devotion to an unreachable… * _Bloody. Buggering. FUCK_ *. He laughed bitterly. * _Din't that just beat all?_ * He'd heard somewhere that some traits were hereditary, but until now hadn't thought unrequited love of distant paramours might be one of them. And yet it changed nothing. He'd still bring down the moon and stars for Dru if he thought she wanted them.

God, he wished this were over already. Dru was cooing and wailing 'bout her buggering Daddy again, and it fair got on his tits it did. Just once he'd like to have that devotion directed his way. A hundred years, was it too bloody much to ask for a bit of affection that wasn't tainted by her vacant eyes and hollow, distracted attentions? In the wake of Angelus abandoning them, he'd taken up the slack and poured himself into caring for her. He was everything to her, father, friend, mother, lover; whatever she'd needed, he was there. Angelus waltzes in and BAM! Persona non grata and not even a fare-thee-well. God it burned.

Looking up, he watched as Angel (because apparently the soul-having meant he was a different person) waved the smoking metal ball and chanted some crap about Eligor and black medicine. It sounded like a penny-dreadful, it did. Bloody rituals. Why did everyone an' his sodding dog have to go and make it as dramatic and overwrought as possible? Like if it din't drip with dark metaphor and weird phraseology it didn't count. And who the hell was Eligor anyway? He'd never heard of the twit. Not that it mattered, Angel's recital would bore the tits off the Venus de Milo. It was like the wanker was recitin' a grocery list.

Spike yawned, his jaw cracking, as Angel came to the end of the chanting and mounted the dias. 'Get your pasty ass over here, Spike. Once I finish this, you can take Dru and leave Sunnydale. You have 24 hours to get out.'

'Or what? You'll stake me?' He snorted. 'Love to see you try mate. You couldn't even do it when I blew in last time, and you think you'll get up the stones now?'

Angel growled. 'I need you to stab this damn knife through my hand and into Dru's. If you do it the other way it won't work, and I don't have the right angle here.'

'Why din't you say so?' he leapt up the steps with glee. 'Never knew you enjoyed bein on the receiving end.'

Angel just snarled. Spike approached his Sire and her maker, wrapping a rope around their wrists to keep the hands from slipping, trying to ignore the way they were entwined already. Taking the hidden knife from the Du Lac cross in his gloved hand, he grasped their wrists with false gentleness, smirking at Angel as he did so. He set the point of the blade between the bones of his grand-sires' knuckles and started working it through the skin. 'Here's a technique you might be familiar with, gramps.'

His grand-sire winced and hissed at the burn. 'Just get on with it, boy.'

He tutted. 'Now, now. You wanted this, remember? So we do it my way this time. Yeah, it'll hurt, but don't worry,' he leered. 'I'll take it nice an slow til you're opened up proper.'

The dark-haired vampire shuddered and winced, as his own words were thrown back in his face. Spike felt a vindictive glee as he dropped the pretense and shoved the blade home. * _Take that, you bloody wanker!_ * He stepped back to view his handiwork, enjoying the pain-filled groans. Watching the emotions playing over the brooding poofter's face was better than anything on telly, and certainly more satisfying.

'What the _hell_ is going on here?!'

Angel looked up, and while the deer-in-the-headlights expression of his would stay with Spike forever, he was also curious about the interruption. Turning slowly, he flicked his gaze to the doors of the main hall. It had to be a Slayer. He'd recognise the expression anywhere. Made 'em all look related, way that uncanny gaze would put the wind up you. He did a double-take.

This new Slayer must have actually been related to the last one too, she was almost identical. If it weren't for the subtle differences he'd wager they were twins. This one was older, for sure. Seemed a bit taller, too, and the hair was darker. As she approached he noticed other little things about her. That walk was bloody lethal, all loose-limbed and predatory. He felt a frisson of heat as the adrenaline started flowing through his body. The tension ramped up even further. Any second now she'd explode into action, and he had to be ready to hold her off long enough for Dru to get what she needed.

' _Buffy_?'

Spike rolled his eyes. ''Course it's not your bloody honey, you daft twat. Did for the bint weeks ago. Din't you know?' Looking at the poleaxed expression gracing his grand-sires face yet again, he started laughing, tears starting from his eyes as he tried to speak through his paroxysms. 'Oh God, this is bloody priceless, this is! Watcher din't even tell you, did he? What, you think she went on sodding holiday? That he went back to Merry Old for a sabbatical?'

'Wow. For a guy out of the loop you got pretty close, Spike. I mean, sure, I died. But you just can't keep a good girl down, ya know?'

'Bull. You may be her sis, Slayer, but you don't even smell like her. She smelt like cotton candy and vanilla. You, pet, smell bloody delicious too, just in a very different way.'

Angel snarled at his words, starting to fight the connection to his childe. Spike didn't even spare him a glance. The ritual would hold him until Dru had what she needed.

'Ok, for the record, this weirdo vampire smelling thing is just ew. And yeah, I might have had a bumpy ride back to the living. Something about mystical mojo crap, you know how it is. Anyway, Angel, was that you I heard chanting earlier? Why were you chanting? Are you actually helping the evil bleach-head and his crazy ho-bag?'

He smiled. Admittedly, it had an angry edge to it, she'd insulted Dru after all. But the Slayer had a bit of spice to her. Obviously not Council-bred then. This could be interesting. 'Yeah, _Angel,_ were you helpin' lil ol' me and Dru? Tsk, tsk. Evil, here. You're 'sposed to be soul-up-arse and goody-goody now, ain't it?' His saccharine grin mocked all parties. 'Now, slayer. You here to wag your finger at us like naughty toddlers, or we gonna dance?'

'Oh we can dance, you peroxided pest, but I'm gonna kick your ass. I've been in a, shall we say, _accelerated_ learning program while I was gone.'

'Come at me then, pet. Lessee what-all you're made of.' He cocked his head at her and invited the girl to make the first move, gentleman that he was. She didn't disappoint, smoothly gliding forward, perfectly balanced, to the clear area before the pulpit. But there she waited. He bounced down the steps gleefully. This was gonna be all kinds of fun if her skills lived up to her mouth.

They began to circle each other like sharks. Top predators of their kind, sizing the other up. He feinted forward and she barely flinched. The girl returned with a short snap kick at knee-level that he danced away from with a chuckle. That ended with a 'whuff' as she quickly centred and drove the ball of her foot right below his solar-plexus. Spike flew back and landed ungracefully in a old, splintery pew. He slid along the bench for a few feet, then flipped himself over and back to his feet. _Well_ , girl clearly knew better than to make a move that she didn't mean to connect. Time to take it up a notch.

* * *

Buffy watched the vampire flip back to his feet and narrow his eyes at her. She smirked back at him, confident of her abilities in a way that was unimaginable last year- a few weeks ago. God this would take a while to get used to. * _Focus. He won't fall for that one again_ * She slowly moved toward him again, guard up. She needed to end this soon and take care of whatever he was doing that involved Angel and his wacky goth girl. 'So, whatcha doin' anyway? I thought vamps didn't go with the whole religion thing. Bad allergy to crosses and all that.'

'I'm bakin' a cake, luv.' He rolled his eyes and dodged a punch. 'What the soddin' hell does it look like?'

'Funny looking cake. You gonna build it around them, have a pop-out for your birthday?' Now that was a wiggy thought. What kind of cake would a vampire like? Would it be safe for human consumption, or would there be all sorts of ew like blood in the icing? She leapt over his leg-sweep, turning it into a fancy cartwheel to avoid his follow-through.

He actually stopped for a half-beat at the thought. 'Was thinkin' about it. Dunno about havin' grandpops in there though, he's a bit maudlin for a party.' Shrugging it off he came after her again, taking advantage of the glance she flicked at Angel to pop her a shiner.

Buffy shook off the sparklies that erupted from the blow. 'I think we're getting off topic here. You need to go down, and I have a stake with your name on it.'

'Aw pet, din't know you cared.' Spike leered and waggled his tongue at her. It was wigsome when he did that. It was also kinda gross, but she couldn't help feeling a little tingle at the suggestiveness of the gesture. His eyes sparkled in the light of the torches, a shade of grey-blue that hovered between ice and azure, nearly glowing with vitality. Buffy frowned, sternly reminding her brain about all the things wrong with the guy. Top of her list was him managing to kill her. She wouldn't realise until later that her almost-boyfriend being in the same room didn't even factor in.

They fell into almost a pattern. If she didn't have to keep avoiding his strikes, and if he was a little less with the 'gonna kill you'-ness, she would almost say it was the dance he had called it at the start. It was certainly a lot more fun when she had the skills to match, if not best him. In fact, if it weren't for him knocking her into the wall, which dislodged a torch into the pile of dust-covers in the corner, she could have happily 'danced' all night. Alas, all things come to an end, and with Angel downed by Spike after leaping into the middle of their fight (why, she didn't know, she wasn't in any danger after all) and the fire growing with no way of combating it, Buffy pulled the plug. Threatening to go after Dru made Spike beat a hasty retreat, though not without one last smoldering glance that promised a 'later'. She dragged Angel's inert form from under the wreckage of the organ, and carried him to safety outside. As she fled the scene, the fire service was just pulling up to the conflagration.


	13. Ch13: Cold Light Of Day

She smelled all wrong. This had to be the replacement slayer Whistler was talking about. It couldn't be his Buffy. His Buffy was... smaller, younger… _blonder_. But whoever this was knew him, and she looked almost like Buffy, just different. He squinted. In the torchlight her profile and manner of speaking was pretty similar too. He'd never really met any Slayers before Whistler directed him to the one in LA, so for all he knew they were all of a size and relatively blonde.

Watching his grandchilde fight her even after he'd managed to extricate himself from the draining effect of the ritual made him uncomfortable. His soul raked his urges over coals of guilt as he thought about just leaving. After all, she wasn't his destiny, did it matter if she won or not? * _But what would Buffy say if she found out you just left?_ * He couldn't do it. Even though he was pretty sure she'd forgive him, eventually. * _I could just say that she wasn't there yet when I left… No, that'll only work if Spike wins_ * He had to make sure she was ok, and to do that he'd have to save her.

Deciding his course of action was easier than implementing it. He watched them fighting back and forth, neither gaining the upper hand. If he didn't know for certain that Spike was totally evil and loved to kill Slayers, he'd almost think they were playing at fighting, each merely testing their skills against a decent opponent. He shook his head and dismissed the notion. She was a Slayer, mandated by Heaven to end the miserable existence of whatever nosferatu crossed her path. No way would she refrain from killing one if she had the chance. Buffy had been… different. She was more willing to look into a man's soul and see the potential for redemption. They were destined to be soulmates, after all. Whistler had as much as told him so.

He swayed on his feet, a wave of weakness washing over him. The ritual to restore Drusilla had taken most of his strength. Angel watched as Spike grabbed one of the slayer's arms and tried to lock it up behind her, only to be flipped over her head and kicked solidly in ribs. And then… then, instead of staking him while he was down _she retreated._ She actually _allowed_ him to stand up. He couldn't understand it. Why wasn't she killing him? They came together again, trading blows and dodging strikes, until the girl misjudged a kick and was sent crashing into a wall, dislodging the torch there. It fell into a pile of discarded dust covers and sparked a real flame. The two didn't appear to notice it, but Angel took it as his cue.

Leaping into the fray he pushed the slayer out of the way of Spikes on-coming fist. Blocking it with difficulty, he backed off a little.

'Rather be fightin' you anyway, you overblown poofter!'

'Mutual.'

* * *

'Ok. Wow. Rude much, Angel?' she muttered. 'That was _my_ evil undead.'

Buffy was annoyed. Hadn't it been obvious that she didn't need any help with the Billy Idol wannabe? But Angel had always treated her like this, now that she thought about it. Like she was some delicate flower incapable of fulfilling her destiny as the Chosen One. It didn't seem to register that she was significantly stronger than he was, or that she was capable of taking care of herself.

It was weird. She never used to feel this way about his- well it was interfering, at the end of the day. She supposed it was some awkward notion of his that this misguided attempt at chivalry was what you did for your girlfriend. Come to think of it, Buffy wasn't sure that she had been. His girlfriend that is. They seemed to meet a lot in dark corners of Sunnydale when the apocalypse was headed to town, and he was big with the cryptic warnings. But not really there for much else. And they never really talked about what she'd sort of expected her boyfriend to talk with her about.

There'd been no long conversations about what they wanted to do with their lives, he'd never even taken her on a proper date. He was too serious to tease, and he didn't really dance. Angel liked to brood, but that was kind of a loner's sport. And she knew almost nothing about him that she hadn't read. Weren't you supposed to get to know your prospective love interest by talking with them? But he was vague, and cryptic, and the few times she had pressed the issue, he had looked so much like a kicked puppy with his guilty eyes and hunched shoulders, that she'd soon given up. Heck, she didn't even know his favourite colour, or whether he watched tv, or took long walks at night.

He wasn't exactly the sort of man you could bring home to mom either. There was something so… _old_ about him. Having the gap of a year between her emotions and his presence had given her perspective. And what she saw wasn't all that attractive, necessarily. There were girls who'd love their boyfriends to do everything for them, defend them, give them jackets, be the brooding hero-type. But as she had been learning, that wasn't her. She'd tried that glass slipper on, and it hadn't fit. It was pretty, but that sort of thing was awkward to wear when you were Action Girl.

Something niggled at her, as she watched the two vampires squaring off. A heavy smokey smell, a crackling in the background… Fire. It was a fire. Well, there went the evening's entertainment. She turned back to the combatants, but they seemed too preoccupied to notice their imminent toastiness. She looked around for some way to grab their attention. Aside from all the wood around, there was Spike's gothy ho-bag girlfriend… and nothing much else. Buffy shrugged. * _Works for me_ * And started over to her, palming a stake as she did.

* * *

It'd been a while since Spike had gone up against his grandsire; almost 80 years, actually. Spike'd been a fledge, still semi-cowed by the Forehead's dominance, and it hadn't gone well for him. Two weeks of semi-starvation while he healed from the broken bones, and nearly a year of derision from Dru, until they'd headed to China during the Boxer Rebellions and he'd caught his lucky break with that first Slayer.

He caught Angel's fist with his chin for the split-second he'd daydreamed. Growling, he shook it off, and his fangs out. He smiled toothily at the ponce opposite. 'That all you got, old man? Time was you'd put me on my arse in the first minute.'

'It hasn't been a minute yet, boy. Don't count me out.'

Angel went for his throat, intending to drain the younger vampire and put him down quickly. It was an effective method of controlling a childe, and one he had used often while they were still nesting together. Spike skipped back, grinning manically. 'Gotta get up earlier than that, mate. Brekky's over!' The taunting served to piss Angel off to no end, just as it always had. Only this time, Spike did it deliberately, knowing its effect. And enjoying it immensely. He'd not had the skill to back his mouthiness up before, when it was all he had to defend himself with. Oddly enough, dying had only improved his grasp of the language, and how to effectively use it.

He continued to evade and bait his larger opponent, landing rapid, stinging blows whenever he could dart in fast enough. He knew it couldn't last, the ponce had the reach on him, and weight besides. But he could wear him down a bit, maybe get a lucky strike or two in. But he'd have to close in for that. * _Sod it anyway,_ * he thought. * _Too much of a pain in the arse to whittle at 'im like a bloody horsefly._ * Closing in he grabbed the older vampire and headbutted him, enjoying the spray of red as Angel's nose broke.

They grappled, neither gaining the upper hand. Snarling viciously in each other's' faces they tried to wrestle the other down. Angel bore down with his superior height, but at the last second Spike twisted out from under the weight and sent him stumbling. While he was off balance, the smaller vampire grabbed a handful of his hair and the waistband of his trousers. With a roar, he swung Angel around in a half-circle and threw him head first across the room.

With a satisfying crash, he went through the main body of the decrepit organ. The pipes gave way with a groan and an atonal clatter as they collapsed on the still figure below them. Most of the supporting wall came with them, completely covering Angel, and raising a cloud of dust. He started over towards the rubble, intent on making sure his grandsire never rose from the mess.

'Spike!'

He turned, his eyes widening as he took in the tableau. Slayer had his dark princess in a painful arm-bar, and was menacing her with a rather pointy stake. He took a half-step forward, stopping dead still when she flinched as if to drive the wood home.

'Look around, Spike. This place is toast, literally. I'm willing to let you and your girlfriend run. But only if you take her and leave without going near that organ. Now. If you don't, she fits in an ashtray, and you're down a lover.'

His nostrils flared as the tic in his jaw began twitching. 'An' what, I'm supposed to believe you'll jus' let us walk? No harm, no foul? Thought you Slayer types were all about the vamp dust.'

'Spike?' Dru's voice was pained as Buffy wrenched her arm higher.

'I believe that's what I said.' She smirked. 'And your free pass is burning up as we speak, so move it or lose it, pal.'

'It'll be alright, baby,' he reassured Dru. Taking a last wistful glance back at the organ, and a more wary one at the encroaching flames, he hurried over. The slayer shoved Drusilla at him, and ran past as he caught and steadied his sire. They fled before the advancing blaze, not stopping til they'd reached safety on the other side of the road. He looked back for a few moments before herding Dru on. Silhouetted in the orange glow was an oddly shaped figure. It looked like the slayer had gained a large hump on her back. * _Sod all. Bastard din't have the decency to dust, even._ *

* * *

 _Fog curls over the ground, muffling the world in cotton wool. The spark searches for… something. There was a connection, a belonging. What was, and will be, full of is not and not like that. The grey permeates everything, distorting reality and dampening sound. The spark moves on. The thick mist is torn into shreds as a lonely breeze sweeps it away with invisible fingers. 'Not here, not here,' it moans. There is urgency now, a sense of time as it slips by. The spark bobbed, slowly resolving itself into a shape. The shape stumbled forward as visibility returned. It looked down. A cord was un-spooled from the centre of its being, stretching into eternity whichever way it faced._

' _Never again,' the freshening wind sobbed, as it strengthened. Clouds rolled in, ominous and black, and the shape that was began to hurry. If it wasn't in time… bad things. Death and loss and broken paths, torn hearts. It tripped, stumbling over a discarded pile. It looked down. Two dolls entwined, one black, one white. He (for it was masculine, this shape) picked up the white, and the black came with it, connected where the heart was located on a man. Placing them gently in his pocket he moved on._

 _Time passed. He came upon a chess board in the grey field, as tall as he was, set with alternating flagstones of white and black marble. Some of the pieces in white were familiar, and so were the dark. But they were set up all mixed together, the black king was behind the white queen, hands oppressing her slender shoulders. The black queen tangled with a curiously stained knight. It was hard to see if it was black or white in the half-light of this neverwhere. The game had not even begun and already it was muddled almost beyond hope. There was a tall figure in all-concealing robes juxtaposed on the far side of the board. It gestured at him._

' _But I chose the dark. White always moves first. That's the rules.' He spoke for the first time since waking here. The concealed figure slowly shook its head and gestured again. The pieces had moved while he wasn't watching. The black king was broken in two on the flagstones, and the white queen had moved towards the knight and his paramour, the dark queen. They had sprung apart, and she was leaning towards her black consort, hand flung back to deny the knight._

' _We watch. That is the game. Life is the rule.' echoed through the space. He looked up from the board again. The figure was gone. He looked back down and the board had vanished. In its place there was a large blue marble. He picked it up. There were silvery swirls through the blue, and his eye was drawn inexorably closer, until leaning in, his perspective winged down through the silver and blue. Hurtling faster he passed through storms and sea, flickering past land and under sun, then dove below the earth. In the darkness there was a pulse. It was tiny and weak, but as he listened it gained strength. The man reached out, and touched a leathery firm surface. It was warm, and in horror he watched his hand fading. He pulled back sharply. He remembered what the cord in his chest was now. This was an astral body. And whatever he'd touched was enough to damage one. His fingers didn't reform._ Taliesin woke up with a groan.

This was really, really bad. He hadn't traveled involuntarily in centuries. And to be damaged? Unheard of. He stared in numb disbelief at the deadened arm before him. He couldn't feel or move it at all. The null sensation only went to about the middle of his forearm, so even in the worst case scenario he wasn't going to lose it entirely. At least he had options.

The only problem was that it looked like he'd have to move to California for a time. He'd hoped to stay in Wales and merely consult with Giles and Buffy, but even the disjointed, unclear visions he'd been given had told him otherwise. Destiny was always able to be overcome by simple free will, but to do so here would be foolish and potentially catastrophic.

He scrubbed his face with his one good hand as he tried to sort out what he'd seen. The travelling had been done while he was sleeping, so the symbols were skewed and he wasn't prepared properly to interpret them. He'd have to meditate on it. First thing, though, was getting the dead flesh removed. The bard hurried from his spartan bedchambers towards the infirmary.

* * *

Airmed was up before first light. She'd felt the call go out sometime in the small hours of the morning and had spent the interval preparing the infirmary for surgery. There were bowls, and towels, and a large cauldron just approaching a seething boil, linens swirling inside. She laid aside herbs for the poultice that'd keep a wound from hemorrhaging. It was a paste of feverfew, comfrey, alum and birch leaves, and would stop the bleeding and keep the wound clean.

She sent a runner to bring her one of the weapons instructors, and set a long dagger and a bonesaw over the coals to heat. There was little to do now except wait. She'd just set a kettle on to brew tea when the door swung open and Taliesin strode through, one of the younger teachers on his heels. Her heart leapt to her throat when she saw him cradling his left arm to his chest protectively. Looking closer, it appeared fine, there were no visible wounds or breaks.

'What is going on, _mo chara_? Are you injured?'

'My injury is in spirit, Airmed. I have lost my hand through a foolish travelling I undertook when I was dreaming last night.'

'Dear gods. Brighid is going to have some words to say to you later. You _will_ go to her for help after this, won't you? Ceridwen knows where she is this time of year.'

'I don't like to put Mother on the spot like that. She is under _geas_ still to kill me if she looks upon my face.' He grimaced. Free will was like that. He'd effectively been an orphan all his life, for though she loved him and smoothed his path where she could, he'd never seen her, and never would while she was honour-bound to end his existence over a foolish vow spoken in the heat of the moment.

The operation went swiftly. She used her small powers to ease his pain, and he was sunk far enough into a trance that he barely felt the red-hot blades severing his limb just below the elbow. Two hours later, poulticed and bandaged, he surfaced from the meditation. Immediately lines of pain creased his brow, but he didn't speak about it except to thank her and direct that the dead flesh be utterly destroyed.

' _A stór,_ you've done me a great service. Do you know where I can get in touch with Brighid right now?'

Airmed thought for a moment. 'She is roaming Ireland in her aspect of the Healer. She was headed North, to Mourne River, when we last communed.'

'Airmed you are a treasure.' He grinned, throwing his good arm around her in an effusive hug.

She flapped a hand at him, blushing. 'You won't still think that once Brighid gets through with you. For a goddess of healing her bedside manner rivals that of the Morrigan.'

Taliesin barked a laugh. 'Not every healer is so kind as you little sister. I must be off now, though whilst I'm down there do you need anything? I have to come back through Ynys Sci before I can travel on.'

She smiled and declined, and he left with promises to visit before the new year.


End file.
